A Somewhat Terrible Idea
by randomsquare
Summary: When Emma Swan gets an invitation to her ex's wedding, she isn't expecting to find it still hurts. Determined not to "lose the break-up", Emma recruits the snarky Irishman she chases down bail jumpers with, to assist her in her somewhat ill-conceived plan to save face. Absolutely nothing could go wrong, right? Captain Swan AU. M for swears.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first splash into the OUAT Captain Swan pool. I've been a fan for a while, and I was mentioning (complaining) to a friend that there were not enough Captain Swan fics using the "fake dating" trope, which is, admittedly, one of my favourites. So this is the start of a little something to fill the void. Here we go! (Or as my friend would say, Tschacka!)**

It was just an envelope. The expensive kind, sure, fashioned of heavy card stock and the address made out with some kind of ornate calligraphy, but just an envelope. But for Emma, the envelope held a weight that only she could detect. One that pressed against her chest, and squeezed at her throat. It felt like finality. _Defeat._

He was really fucking marrying her.

* * *

><p>It wasn't like she didn't know it was coming. Neal was a pretty shitty father, all things considered, but he'd at least pretended to consult his ten year old son before he'd gotten engaged. Which of course meant that it had only taken Henry, freshly dropped off from a weekend with his Dad in New York (of course Neal didn't walk him to the door) all of five seconds to spill the beans. His backpack was still on, for chrissakes.<p>

Neal and Tamara were getting married.

Henry had continued waxing lyrical in that adorably precocious way of his, putting away his toys whilst talking pizza and ducks in Central Park and bagels with cream cheese, without pausing for breath. He didn't seem to realise that Emma wasn't listening. Couldn't listen. Until the glass she'd been holding had exploded in her hand.

Emma looked down, dazed, at the mess of broken glass, and the thin trail of blood that was starting to run down her palm

"Mom?" Henry had stopped mid-anecdote. "Are you okay?"

Emma shook herself. "Son of a bitch. Sorry kid, stay right there, okay? I don't want you cutting yourself."

"You're bleeding." She looked down. The blood had trailed down her finger tips now and was dripping onto the floor.

She shuffled towards the sink, trying to avoid stepping on any broken glass in her socks, and ran her hand under water. It didn't seem to be stopping.

"Hey kid, would you be able to get me the first aid kit, under the sink in the bathroom?" Henry disappeared down the hall, reappearing a few minutes later with his quarry. Getting it to her would prove a bit more challenging, separated as they were by scattering of broken glass. Henry squished his face up in that endearing way that meant he was thinking, until he just climbed onto the breakfast bar, and walked across the kitchen benchtop towards her.

He sat down on the draining board, little legs swinging against the cabinets, and reached into the box on his lap, pulling out a handful of Band-Aids bearing Disney characters.

"Do you want Peter Pan, or Captain Hook?" Henry asked, examining the options. Emma froze involuntarily.

It was entirely the wrong moment for this. The association wasn't a pleasant one. Once upon a time, Emma had been a _Lost Girl. _Neal a _Lost Boy. _It was something they'd bonded over, having been abandoned and rejected over and over, by their parents, by the system, by everyone who should have known better. Emma thought she'd finally broken the cycle when she'd met Neal. Finally been found. She should have known better.

"Captain Hook," she replied, more than a hint of vindictiveness in her choice. Henry nodded approvingly.

She patted her hand dry with a dish towel, and presented it to her son, who very carefully applied the Band-Aid.

"Nice work, kid." She went to move her hand away, but Henry stopped her.

"You're forgetting the most important part!"

"I am?" He shot her an exasperated look, one which clearly said _grownups are idiots._

"A kiss, to make it better!" He bent down, and delivered a very soft kiss to the bandaged cut, and Emma felt her heart swell with love for her son.

One day soon, he'd stop believing in this stuff. She suspected he already had his suspicions about Santa and the Easter Bunny, but was milking it for more presents. Soon, he wouldn't even bother pretending anymore, and he would metamorphoses into a grumpy, monosyllabic teenager seemingly overnight. But for now, she still had her sweet boy, and he was all hers. Well, except for summer vacation and alternate weekends, anyway.

"Are you sure you're okay, Mom?" Henry was using the big eyes on her. Neal's eyes. She loved her son, but how she wished he looked a little less like his father sometimes.

"I'm just a klutz." She ruffled his hair. "You said something about a castle in Central Park?" And suddenly the motormouth was running a million miles an hour, and the eyes darted away as he recalled adventure after adventure, and Emma could breathe again.

* * *

><p>So when the envelope arrived it was not entirely unexpected. That was what happened, after all, wasn't it, when someone agreed to marry you? You got married. That's how it was supposed to go. And so here it was.<p>

Once Emma had gotten her breathing under control, she had called Henry into the living room, and they'd opened it together. It contained a written formal request that Henry do Neal the honour of being his best man. It was a move which some would have considered sweet, and Henry looked suitably proud. Emma found it cloying, but she bit her lip to keep her tongue in check. She wouldn't ruin Henry's moment. He was going to have an important role to play in his Dad's life, which was something that he deserved, something that she knew he craved, and she wasn't going to let herself be bitter about it.

It also came with two invitations. One addressed to the best man. _Henry Swan_. Which she'd expected. And one to her. _Emma Swan and guest_.

Was it usual to invite your Baby Mama to watch you waltz off into the sunset with another woman? Was Tamara really okay with her being there? Or was she just a convenient babysitter for Henry? She almost picked up the phone, determined to find out, but she found her attention drawn back to the invite.

_Emma Swan and guest. _

A plus one? Surely Neal didn't expect her to bring a date to this thing? Not when her role would clearly be wrangling an overexcited Henry, so as not to overwhelm the newlyweds. It's not like she was seeing anyone. He _knew_ she wasn't seeing anyone. Never saw anyone. Not since, well… Henry. And whose fucking fault was that?

Was it a none-too-subtle reminder that she was alone? That she needed to move on already? Or was it just a simple courtesy?

She didn't know. But something about it bothered her. As she examined the invitation again, an idea began to form.

* * *

><p>"You're out of your fucking mind, Swan." Killian handed her back the invitation, so that he could line up his final shot. The dart missed its mark by rather a lot, and he scowled. He whirled around again, fingers searching for his glass. Emma grabbed it before him, and held it out of his reach.<p>

"What is this, ransom?" he looked affronted. "There's no fucking way, love. Good thing for me, there's more where that came from," and he sidestepped her, making his way back towards the bar.

She grabbed him by the elbow, and to his detriment, he glanced at her. She was pulling out all the stops, doe eyes and pouted lips.

"You know it isn't in my nature to beg." He snorted in agreement.

"So why change the pattern of a lifetime, eh?" he looked pointedly at her hand still on his arm, and reluctantly, she let him go. He took advantage of her lapse in attention to grasp the glass out of her other hand and drain it in one gulp.

"Anything from the bar, love?" he smirked, rolling his empty glass in his fingers. Emma groaned.

"The usual. And make it a double." He grinned wickedly at having won the exchange, and turned away.

* * *

><p>It was a terrible idea. Emma couldn't deny that. But it was one that had planted itself in her mind, and now her course was set. She wouldn't be dissuaded from it. Not even by a stubborn Irishman without an ounce of human compassion.<p>

Killian hadn't exactly been her first choice. Not that there were a lot of viable candidates, exactly. Emma was a bailbondswoman. The kind of guys one encounters in that line of work are usually confined to the ones buying a one-way ticket to Mexico, unconcerned their grandmothers are going to be tossed out on their asses after having put their houses up for collateral. Not an altogether savoury or thoughtful bunch.

The agency Emma worked in was small. One might even go so far as to say tiny. David Nolan ran the place, and Emma and Killian traced the skips. David's wife, Mary Margaret, handled the phones. It was a ramshackle little endeavour, but between the four of them, they made it work.

Not a lot of people would have given someone like Emma a shot, with a record and a kid to boot, but the Nolans hadn't even hesitated, welcoming Henry and Emma both into their little patchwork family. They spent Thanksgivings together. Christmases too. They didn't judge. And when Neal re-entered the scene, just before Henry turned eight, apparently eager to connect with the son he'd never known, they'd refused to fully warm to him, like the true friends they were.

* * *

><p>"No little lad tonight, then?" Killian returned, a double whiskey in hand. Emma never drank on nights she had Henry. But he was in New York this weekend with Neal, getting fitted for his little Best Man outfit. As much as the whole idea of the wedding grated on her, the image of her little man in a tiny tux wasn't an unappealing one, and she made him promise to take pictures from the fitting.<p>

"He's in New York," she replied, taking the offered drink, and draining it with one tip of the glass. Killian gave her a wary look.

"Steady, love. I shan't go easy on you just because you're inebriated," he turned his attention back to the game.

"There'll be an open bar," she sing-songed, her case still not finished.

"Swan, it's not the free booze I'm opposed to. It's the occasion." He gripped her by the shoulders, and looked her level in the eye. "I. Don't. Do. Weddings."

"Are you sure? You'd look pretty good in a suit…" She let her eyes rake over him briefly, and she saw something spark in his eyes before he shook it away.

"Don't appeal to my vanity, Swan. It's beneath you."

"You're really going to let me go alone? To be shunned and whispered about by strangers?"

"You're being dramatic."

"I don't want him to win," she admitted, defeated.

"To win?" He raised an eyebrow.

"The break-up. I don't want him to win."

"Why, because he's moved on faster?" He shook his head. "Whatever happened, you got the little lad out the break-up. I'm pretty sure you won." She smiled at his logic, but it didn't help her case.

"No one else will see it that way. You know they won't. I'll look like the pitiful ex-girlfriend, secretly wishing the happy couple ill."

"Which you may or may not be?" He had her there. "Who cares what a bunch of strangers think anyway? It's not worth concocting this elaborate deception."

"You're a bailbondsman. You deceive people _all the time!_"

"Aye, for the greater good," he scratched behind his ear.

"And this isn't for the greater good?"

"I'm not going to be your pretend boyfriend, Swan. So shut up, have a drink, and stop distracting me while I'm taking my turn."

* * *

><p>Emma awoke to the sound of incessant banging. Had her neighbour decided to engage in a little impromptu DIY? Was she going to have to kill him? Her head was pounding, and her mouth felt like dry cotton. The banging continued unabated.<p>

"Swan?" Confused, Emma sat up, which was evidently a mistake, because her headache worsened considerably. It was Killian, standing in her doorway. Shirtless Killian. And for a second, she couldn't recall why he was there, until something clicked and the previous night returned to her in a flash.

Whiskey. Lots of whiskey. More drunken singing than was usually advisable. Killian walking her home. Her offering him the couch. And blessed, uninterrupted sleep. Until now.

"Expecting someone?" He asked, eyes shooting to the front door, which was apparently the source of the commotion. He was trying to smooth out his bedhead, and the sight was somewhat distracting to her hungover brain.

"Swan!" Killian's voice shook her from her reverie. "Is the little lad due back?"

"Not 'til tomorrow," Emma couldn't keep her head raised any longer and fell back onto the pillows.

"Alright," Killian voice rumbled. "I'll get rid of them."

She heard him as he made his way to the front door, muttering curses under his breath the whole time. And then she heard him open the door.

"Emma?" Killian shouted. He never called her that. "You'd better get out here." His tone was urgent, and Emma scrambled out of bed, stopping only to grab a robe to pull over her nightdress. Rushing into the living room, she was caught off guard by a hug from her ten year old son.

"Henry? What are you doing back this early? And why didn't you use your key?" And then she looked past him to see Neal standing in the doorway, giving Killian a death glare. Just brilliant. Of all the times to walk Henry up to the apartment.

To his credit, Henry seemed completely unaware of any and all tension in the room.

"Hey Killian." Henry greeted, nonchalantly, kicking off his sneakers.

"Hey lad." Killian clapped him on the shoulder. "Want to come into the kitchen for a snack with me real quick? If I know your mother, there's got to be some Pop-Tarts in there somewhere. I think the grownups need to talk." Emma gave him a grateful nod.

At the magical word _snack, _Henry was sold, and his eyes lit up.

"Bye Dad!"

"I'll see you, buddy," Neal called from the doorway, raising an arm in farewell. And then the prospect of food won out, and Henry trotted after Killian.

Neal waited until he'd disappeared from view to launch in.

"What the fuck, Emma?"

Her head was still throbbing, so surely she hadn't heard him right.

"Me? What the fuck Neal? It's Saturday. You had him the whole weekend."

"Something came up with the church. We have to drive to Maine to sort it out."

"And you couldn't call me?"

"Had I known you spend your weekends off fucking a random leprechaun, maybe I would've."

"Are you kidding me right now?" He paused to give her a once over. His look said he wasn't impressed.

"Are you… hungover?"

"It's Saturday! And you didn't call me! I can do whatever the fuck I like!"

"Including the leprechaun."

"Jesus Christ, you aren't doing this."

"I deserve to know who is spending time with my son." Emma knew a cop out line when she heard one.

"Henry wasn't even supposed to be here! And it's Killian. You know Killian. You've met him. More than once! At David and Mary Margaret's? I've worked with him for the last five years!"

"And that's not all, apparently," Neal sneered. Emma was ready to launch herself at his throat, when Killian appeared around the corner.

"I'll give you both fair warning. These walls," he rapped a knuckle on one. "Pretty thin." That sobered both of them pretty quickly, but Neal was still eyeing Killian, or moreover Killian's shirtless figure, with more than a little suspicion.

Emma located his shirt from last night hanging off the edge of the sofa, and bundled it up in her hands.

"Perhaps if everyone was decent?" she offered, throwing Killian the shirt. Mercifully, he put it on, but not without an incendiary wink at Emma first.

Emma watched Killian hesitate, and then amble forwards towards Neal, a false smile plastered on his face.

"I haven't had the chance to congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials." He brandished a hand forward, and Neal took it by instinct, staring at his own traitorous hand in surprise as it shook Killian's, the picture of civility.

"Bloody brilliant news. I know the lad is really excited." Killian chanced a glance at Emma, who was sending him _abort mission _signals with her eyes. He grinned wider.

"We hadn't told Henry about all of this, you see," Killian motioned between he and Emma. "Hadn't found the right moment, as it were. What with your news, we didn't want to overwhelm him with change, so you'll excuse the shock. It appears the jig is up!" And with that, he went and stood next to Emma, and placed a hand around her waist. If she'd had any presence of mind, she'd bat him away, but what with the hangover, and the surprise sneak attack, she was too curious as to where he was going with this. She leaned into him a little, and the opportunistic bastard went in for a boob grab. Emma subtly brought her foot down hard on his, and Killian faltered a little, and became instantly less handsy. Fortunately, Neal didn't notice any of this, busy leaning on the doorframe, grappling at the news.

"So, you two are…" Neal began.

"Together." Killian supplied. "Yes. A rather surprising but very welcome development." He smiled at Emma an infuriatingly smug smile.

Emma wasn't sure how he bought it, but Neal looked suitably sickened by the display.

"And we'll be seeing you at the wedding, looks like!" Killian responded jovially.

At the word wedding, Neal seemed to remember his very urgent trip to Maine, and his future bride he'd left downstairs in the car.

"Ah, yes. Wedding. Speaking of…" he motioned out into the hallway. "Better get going."

"Of course," Killian replied, hugging Emma tighter to him.

"Ah, sorry again Ems. I'll call you about another weekend."

"Bye Neal."

When Neal finally left, Killian removed his hand and took a step away from Emma.

"What the hell was that!?" Emma whispered angrily as Killian flopped down onto the sofa.

"I've decided I am going to help you win your break-up, after all," he answered breezily.

"So what happened to Mr. "I Don't Do Weddings"?" Emma asked, failing in her imitation of his accent, before taking a seat beside him.

"Pop-Tarts are ready!" Henry's tiny voice called from the kitchen.

"Ah! Excellent!" Killian stood up, and raised an eyebrow at Emma, who hadn't moved. "Not coming to breakfast, then?"

"Killian…" Her voice was weary. He bent down until their faces were level, his impossibly blue eyes meeting her green ones.

"He called me a leprechaun, Swan. A leprechaun."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Wow. Initial positive response to this story has been overwhelming. Thank you!**

There was a sticking point. There always was, in every plan. And in Emma's?

Henry.

Tamara and Neal lived in New York. Emma and Henry, in Boston. Neal had no family, and no friends left from the good ol' days. Tamara's family hailed from a small, close-knit town in Maine, where the wedding was going to be held. Emma and Neal had no one in common, to contradict the lie. No one at all. Except Henry.

Could she really lie to him? Her own son? And for what, to make herself seem like less of a loser in front of a bunch of strangers? To piss off Neal? To enact some petty revenge on someone else's happiness? What kind of example did that set? What kind of parent did that make her? She didn't want to examine the answer to that too closely.

But Killian had unintentionally started the ball rolling the moment he'd opened the door sans shirt, and now Neal had been fed the spiel. It was already too late to turn back now.

There would have to be ground rules.

* * *

><p>"Are you seriously writing these down?"<p>

"I'm keeping us accountable!"

"Culpable, is more like. For someone who chases paper trails all day, you're not all that concerned with creating them, are you?"

Emma stuck out her tongue at him.

"Now, now Swan. Mind your manners. Am I, or am I not, doing you a rather large favour, having asked for nothing in return?" His tone was all innocence, but there was a gleam in his eye that Emma didn't like the look of. He needed distracting.

"So who is this guy, anyway?" Emma asked, indicating the house that they had been staking out for the last half hour.

"Gerry Whale." Killian recited, as if he was reading off a list. "Violated a protection order. Didn't show up for his court date this morning."

"Domestic abuse?" Emma asked, a chill entering her voice.

"Put his ex-wife in the hospital a year ago. Beat her with a metal pipe." Killian's tone was trying for emotionless, his accent becoming more pronounced with the effort. "A few weeks ago he apparently showed up at her workplace unannounced, asking for her back. She called the cops."

"Naturally," Emma motioned for him to continue.

"His mother was the one who put up the bail. Used her house as collateral. He won't be showing up on her doorstep any time soon, so long as he's MIA. Which leads us here." Killian motions towards the half brick Victorian house on the left. "The brother's house. Victor. A surgeon. Quite a good one, apparently. Testified on his brother's behalf for his assault and battery charge. Said what an all-round top bloke he was. How he'd never attack anyone without provocation, least of all his wife." Killian's placid façade was beginning to crack around the edges. "May have been a factor in the judge's leniency. Twelve months' probation with court-ordered anger management counselling." He looked over at her then, at her hands clenched tightly to her notebook.

"Careful Swan. He may be human filth, but he's _my_ meal ticket. I won't let you unleash any…" he waved a hand vaguely in front of her, "redneck justice on him."

"Redneck justice? Really?"

"What? I never know what you Americans are going to do next. One minute you're enjoying a quiet celebratory pint, the next you're helping apprehend a man dressed as a flying monkey in the middle of the St Patrick's Day parade!"

That had happened last year. Even more mortifyingly, a photographer from the _Globe _had captured the take-down, and it had made the front page, under the fold. David had it framed for the office. Emma was _never _going to live that down. Killian would ensure it.

"That was a one off," Emma scoffed.

"Jesus Christ, Swan, you could have at least waited until the man had gotten the wings off to cuff him!" Killian was enjoying this trip down memory lane entirely far too much.

"He should have honored his court date…" Emma mumbled haughtily, crossing her arms, and turning to look out the window.

Killian laughed.

"You're a tough lass."

"And don't you forget it, buddy."

* * *

><p>One and a half packets of Twizzlers and a coffee later, there was still no sign of the illustrious Gerry Whale, nor his better-heeled brother. Inevitably, Emma's attention wandered, returning to the notebook she was still holding, and the beginnings of a list scribbled inside.<p>

There was only one point on which they had both unequivocally agreed.

_**Henry doesn't get hurt.**_

"So how will this work?" Killian paused in his demolition of a bag of Funyuns to quirk an eyebrow at Emma's words.

"We slam the cuffs on if he shows up?" He mumbled uncertainly through a mouthful of snacks.

"Not Gerry," Emma rolled her eyes. "The wedding date situation."

"Ah." Killian swallowed down the last of the Funyuns. "My grand fake-boyfriend debut!"

"I'm regretting this already," Emma muttered, bringing a Twizzler up to her mouth. In an instant, Killian grabbed it from her hand a second before she had been about to bite, and had devoured the lot. She just stared at him in disbelief.

"Just getting in practice, love. Sharing food. A very fake boyfriend thing to do." He winked. Emma rolled her eyes again.

"I believe running a con is your speciality, is it not, Swan? So why don't you tell me the plan?" An occupational hazard of working alongside someone who digs up dirt on others, they tend not to draw the line at clients.

"Don't," she warned.

"I didn't mean…" Killian reconsidered his approach. "I just meant, you know how to lie. Keep it simple. Mix in a liberal dose of truth. You'll be less likely to make a misstep."

"_I'll _be less likely to make a misstep?" Killian groaned.

"_We'll _be less likely to make a misstep. Better?"

"Much." Emma leaned across the console and grabbed Killian's coffee, taking a long sip, smiling at Killian's look of dismay.

"Practice," she shrugged, as she handed it back to him. He glowered at her before continuing with his original thought.

"So we agree that the only people we really need to try to convince are Neal, and Henry, right?" Emma's gut sank like a stone at the thought.

"Right. And general wedding guests. But that'll just be for the wedding weekend."

"So someone who lives 200 miles away, and a child. You know what, Swan? I think we've got this."

"Oh?"

"No offense Swan, but the man you procreated with is not the sharpest knife in the drawer."

"He's not an idiot, Killian. He's just…"

"Self-absorbed. Which works in our favor, in this instance." Emma smiled against her will. It wasn't an entirely erroneous description. "And Henry…"

"And Henry, what?" Emma's hackles raised automatically.

"He's ten. And as far as I can tell, he's never been exposed to the realities of an adult relationship, real or otherwise. Am I wrong?"

"There's David and Mary Margaret…"

"Ah yes," Killian agreed, taking a sip of coffee. "The golden couple. Such a picture perfect example of traditional marriage. Flowers. Coffee dates. Homemade dinners." There was an undercurrent of derision in his voice.

"There's nothing wrong with being traditional…" It fell to Emma to defend the honor of their employers.

"No, but it isn't really _us, _is it Swan?" Emma's skin prickled at the word _us, _and she turned to find Killian regarding her seriously, one eyebrow raised.

"I suppose not," she relented.

"Then allow me to plan a handful of couple-like interactions in the lead-up to the wedding, to sell the boy on the charade. How long until the big day?"

"Six weeks."

"Plenty of time."

"Why are you planning them?"

"Darling, you know how to take down flying monkeys." Emma snorted. "I know how to plan an evening out. So will you allow me the honour?"

"Fine." Emma threw a Twizzler at him.

"And you'll have the enviable task of delivering the stupendous news of our fledgling courtship to the lad!"

"Do you ever talk like a normal person?"

"And what fun would that be?" Emma threw another Twizzler at him, but this one he caught in his mouth. He grinned at her through a mouthful of red licorice.

* * *

><p>A few hours later, when their entire store of high-caloric snack food was exhausted and there was still no sign of their quarry, it was time to face facts. Gerry Whale had probably skipped town, with or without his brother's help.<p>

"I do hope you'll be paying for our dates, Swan, because I fear my meal ticket has probably hopped a bus to Canada."

The both continued to stare at Victor Whale's house, which looked much creepier in the moonlight than it had previously, a dejected air filling the car.

"So what is it that you want?" Emma broke the silence.

"I'm sorry?" Killian shook himself from his focus on the house. "What are we talking about?"

"You're right. You are doing me a favor. I recognize that. Which means that you are entitled to one in return."

"I didn't agree to your ridiculous plan because I wanted a favor from you, Swan."

"No, you agreed because Neal annoys you."

"Precisely," he arched his back against the seat and stretched out his spine, like a cat.

"And I appreciate that. But I need to be able to count on more than your dislike of Neal to ensure this stupid plan's success."

"When you had group projects at school, you were always the control freak, weren't you Swan?" Emma just rolled her eyes. "Dammit Swan. I agreed to help you. I gave you my word that I would. It shouldn't matter why. So long as you trust me to be as good as my word."

The silence in the short space between them was suffocating.

"Ah. So that's it then, isn't it? You don't trust me." Killian swallowed back a stab of hurt, but his voice was still strained. "You'll let me back you up against a bail jumper with a gun, but you still think I'd let you down at the earliest opportunity where my professional reputation wasn't at stake." It wasn't a question.

Emma had hurt his feelings. She could see that. She tried to form an apology, but she wasn't sure what she had to apologize for. Killian knew better than anybody what people were capable of doing to each other. That people needed to protect themselves.

"Fine," Killian barked. Emma started at his tone, and he made sure to soften his words. "If it makes you feel better, we'll strike a bargain. I'll jump through all the hoops required to make your little façade fly. I'll be the best damn wedding date you've ever had. I'll look the part. I'll act the part. I will Electric Slide with the best of them."

"Please don't Electric Slide." Emma interrupted.

"Consider the Electric Slide nixed from our deal." Killian amended, one corner of his lip curving up against his will. "Everyone will unanimously agree that you won the break-up. And in return for my being such a good sport, you are going to…" Emma wasn't sure if he was pausing for dramatic emphasis or because he was still grappling for something to bargain for, but before she could punch him, he let loose a shaky breath and delivered his terms.

"You're going to help me find someone."

"And why would you need my help with that? You're the best skip tracer in Boston."

"And I thank you for acknowledging me as such, Swan." Killian gave her a mocking bow of gratitude, and she couldn't resist any longer, punching him square in the shoulder. Killian looked unabashed, but began to rub his shoulder anyway.

"Sometimes, another set of eyes can be helpful. Preferable, even," he continued.

"And who are we finding?"

"All in good time, darling. Do you accept my terms? Or do you not?"

"I accept." She brokered a hand.

"Excellent." He gave a wide smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He went to grasp her hand, and stopped himself. "I feel like we should make this more official. Should we spit shake on it?"

"Is that how they settle things in County Cork? Because you and I are not swapping saliva."

"Another one of your rules, Swan?" The look he gave her was positively sinful.

Killian Jones was an attractive man. So much Emma could acknowledge. She wasn't blind. And that was part of the reason why she'd chosen him as her accomplice, after all, his ability to fill out a suit and look good on her arm. The unfortunate part was that he was well-aware of it, and he knew how to use it to his advantage. When he turned on the charm in such tight quarters, it made Emma feel a little like Little Red Riding Hood being stared down by her hungry wolf.

"Perhaps. No spitting. A proper gentleman's handshake."

"I'm always a gentleman, Swan."

"Prove it."

They shook on it. A proper gentleman's handshake.


	3. Chapter 3

When Emma was growing up, she'd been to eight elementary schools in five years. Each one had been virtually indistinguishable from the last. The same red-brick facades. The same group of well-off local kids who never gave her the time of the day. The same one teacher who always tried to make it their mission to "save" the lowly orphan from her certain future as a drug addict or prostitute, with a condescending dose of extra attention. The same group of eager mothers lined up at the school gate by the final bell, who were never waiting for her.

Now, she was one of those mothers. But even now, she still didn't fit. These women were all in their thirties, at least. They wore brand name exercise-wear, or skirt suits, or Mom jeans. They clutched Starbucks to-go cups in one hand, and keys to their BMWs in the other. They were all married, or divorced with great alimony.

They hadn't spent their morning chasing a bail jumper fifteen blocks down Boylston Street. They hadn't had a garbage can thrown at them, and almost been ran down by a Jeep. They hadn't tased anyone in an alley, cuffed them, and had to call their fake boyfriend to help them carry them back to the car. They hadn't found an errant piece of orange peel in their hair just now.

If they had, Emma wouldn't have been half so petrified of them.

* * *

><p>Emma finally caught sight of Henry amongst the throng of departing students, hair flattened carefully to the side in the way he liked, the scarf Mary Margaret had knitted for him last Christmas wound loosely around his neck, satchel banging awkwardly against his hip. His face lit up when he spotted her there, waiting, and Emma felt her insecurities slide away. She'd made a lot of mistakes in her life. More than most. But Henry was the one thing she got right.<p>

"I thought Mary Margaret was picking me up today?" He asked, after they'd disentangled themselves from their hug. It wouldn't be long until he wouldn't be caught dead hugging his mother in public. Emma was getting in as many as she could in the meantime. "It's Tuesday, right?"

"Change of plans, kid. I thought we'd go for ice cream." Emma smiled, her tone casual, but her boy had always been a clever one. He looked up sharply.

"Did someone die?" He asked, his little brown eyes filling with concern. Emma swore under her breath and crouched down so Henry could see the truth in her eyes.

"No one is dead. I promise you."

"So what's with the ice cream?" He looked unconvinced.

"I…" Emma considered feigning ignorance, but that clearly wasn't going to fly. "I have something to tell you, and I'm trying to butter you up first." His look of concern did not go away.

"Bad news?"

"It's not bad. It's just… different."

"Different!?" There was a tone of mania to the concern now. Great.

They'd reached Emma's VW Beetle now, and she opened the door for him to climb in.

"Get in kid. The sooner I down two sundaes, the sooner I'll tell you." He continued to stand resolutely on the sidewalk, arms crossed.

"Different!?" he repeated.

"You're killing me here, kid." Emma knelt down in front of him. "I promise, nothing is changing without your express permission, okay?"

"Pinky swear?" His eyes were as big as saucers, and Emma felt her heart constrict. She reached out her hand to envelop his little finger with her own.

"Pinky swear." She agreed, squeezing his finger for a long moment. Apparently satisfied, Henry climbed into his seat, and Emma closed the door behind him, letting out a long sigh. This was going to suck.

* * *

><p>Emma made it through half of her sundae before the longing looks Henry was shooting at her over his cinnamon cocoa became too much.<p>

"Fine, fine, I yield!" She declared, throwing her spoon down on the table with a clatter. "I'll tell you everything, just stop with the doe eyes!" Henry's expression quickly morphed to one of triumph, but when he saw his mother's lips form into a straight line, a little bit of fear crept back into the edges of his eyes.

Emma ripped off the Band-Aid.

"How would you feel if I started dating?"

Henry wasn't expecting the Band-Aid approach. He didn't say anything. He just sat there, mouth slightly open, brain in apparent meltdown. Five Seconds. Fifteen Seconds.

"Henry?" Emma waved his cocoa in front of his face, apprehension sneaking into her voice. He seemed to snap out of it, his eyes connecting with hers.

"Did someone ask you out?" His face still gave nothing away.

"I…err..." She hadn't really had time to rehearse the official story, so she kept close enough to the truth as possible. Isn't that what Killian suggested? Mix the lies and truth. "I kind of asked him out." And then realizing how that sounded, she hastened to add, "But if you aren't cool with it, I won't. It's 100% up to you."

"You asked someone out?" Apparently this would take baby steps.

"Yeah." Emma scanned his eyes for a flicker of… _anything_, but the kid was a steel trap. "Is that, okay?"

"Do I know him?" Emma had never had a father to give her the Spanish Inquisition about her dates growing up, but she imagined it would be a lot like this.

"Uhh… yeah." The look Henry gave her was expectant, and oddly reminiscent of Mary Margaret waiting on the results from a job. "It's Killian. From work," Emma mumbled, looking back down at her hands.

"Killian?" the question wasn't delivered with an air of derision, which Emma appreciated. Just a tone of surprise.

"Yeah." Her eyes flickered back up to his, and she felt trapped under their weight.

"You like him?" The question was awfully earnest, and Emma caught something in his expression she hadn't thought she would see. _Hope. _This was not good.

"Yeah. At least, I think I do." She stared back down at her hands. "That's kind of what dating is for. To see if you like the person."

"And he said yes?"

"He did."

"Mom, this is great!" Emma looked up to see her son's eyes shining brightly.

"Is it?" Emma had expected opposition, or apprehension, or indifference. She hadn't expected excitement. This was not good at all.

"Of course it is! You never like anyone!" She thought about arguing that, but there was a ring of truth to it.

Emma had tried dating a few times since Henry was born, but the dates usually turned out to be unmitigated disasters with absolute creeps, or one-night things that she usually regretted later more often than not. Few of them had made it past the first date, and absolutely none of them had ever met Henry.

"So you're saying you're okay with it?" Henry reached across the table to take Emma's hand in his own. She remembered when his fingers couldn't even wrap around her thumb. And now here he was, half way to being a man. This knowledge stabbed at her in the most uncomfortable way.

"If you like him, then I'm okay with it." He smiled. Emma smiled back, her heart thumping strangely in her chest.

This was a big moment. She felt this was a big moment. And she was lying to him. She was lying to her favourite person in the world. She felt the sting of tears forming in her eyes and rushed to blink them away. When she looked back up at him, Henry had dialled down on the excitement a notch, returning to his cocoa. Emma reached for her spoon to continue with her long-forgotten sundae, but was interrupted by her son looking up suddenly from his drink. There was a puff of whipped cream on his nose, and Emma resisted the urge to attack him with a napkin.

"There is one thing," he was going for stern, but the whipped cream rendered him adorably unthreatening. "If he breaks your heart, me and Uncle David are going to have to kill him." Henry shrugged, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "Them's the breaks."

* * *

><p>It was past ten, and Henry was long in bed when her phone buzzed on her night stand. A text.<p>

**Did the little lad give his blessing? KJ**

Emma crawled into the center of her bed, and flopped down onto her back before she sought to reply.

**He did. Thunderbirds are go. ES**

Emma expected a sarcastic text in return, one that perhaps remonstrated her use of outdated cultural references, so was caught off-guard when her phone started vibrating in her hand.

"Hello?"

"Are you okay, Swan?" His accent was thicker than normal, as it usually was at the end of the day, but there was no mistaking the concern.

"Hi. I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" There was a beat.

"Swan."

Just that one word. That's all it took for the dam to break. Tears welled in Emma's eyes, and she felt them begin to spill down her cheeks. She crept off her bed and crawled into her closet, sliding shut the door behind her, phone still in hand.

"How did you know?" she hated the way her voice sounded, crackling at all the wrong moments.

"I know you well enough. For my part, I'm sorry you had to do that."

"It was my idea." Her nose blocked up, making her voice nasally and weird. She was a hot mess.

"And I let you run with it. I am as culpable as you are."

"I really hated lying to him," she whispered.

"I know."

"He's gonna hate me when he finds out." Sobs erupted from her throat before she could stop them.

"Hey, hey, hey. It's alright. It's okay." His words were soothing, but the sobs didn't abate, Emma's whole body wracked with them. "He won't hate you. He'll never hate you. I promised you he wouldn't get hurt, and I meant it, Emma."

"You…" Emma waited out another convulsion before she continued. "You called me… Emma."

"Aye, I did at that. So you know I'm serious. I won't let anything happen to the boy. It's doubtful he will ever find out, but if he does, he will not hate you, okay?"

"I'm such a bad mother." A new wave of sobs hit her, and she had to strain to hear Killian's words over the sounds of her own distress.

"You're a great mother, Emma. A great mother. You get crazy ideas at times, but you love him. And he knows that, okay?" He took a shaky breath. "You and I were never that lucky."

It felt like a confession, whispered in the dark for no one else to hear. Something intimate. Something Emma didn't deserve. It was enough to get Emma's breathing under control.

"You've never told me that before." Emma's voice was soft, barely above a whisper, as if the secret was a flickering candle between them, and any sudden movements would extinguish it forever. There was silence on the other end of the line. Just the sound of Killian's rhythmic breathing.

"Aye." He said at last.

"Do you regret it?" She whispered. "Telling me, I mean." He seemed to consider this for a long moment.

"No orphan should be left to feel alone, Swan. So no, I don't regret it." Another pause. "I beg you not to tell Mary Margaret, though. She treats me like a stray puppy half of the time already."

"That's what she does." Emma agreed, the beginnings of a smile tracing her lips.

"And god love her for it, but there are only so many hand-knitted scarves a man needs before it is bordering on the absurd." The smile was full-blown now, Emma imagining Killian drowning in a pile of Mary Margaret's signature gifts.

"Thank you, Killian."

"What are fake boyfriends for, Swan?" She could practically hear his wink across the phone line.

"I'm serious."

"As am I. The lad will be fine. Everything will be fine."

"You really think so?" Emma hated the neediness that crept into her voice.

"I've seen you take down flying monkeys and men brandishing dustbins. You've got this, darling."

Emma prided herself on being independent. Autonomous. Self-reliant. But she couldn't deny that something in her traitorous chest flared with pleasure at the knowledge that Killian Jones believed in her. Which was stupid.

"I'm not the hugging type, but I kind of want to hug you right now."

"Ah, you see? We make a splendid pair already!"

"Yeah, yeah. I don't -" Emma's attempt at returning the conversation to more solid ground was cut off by a yawn.

"You should sleep." Killian advised softly. Emma yawned again.

"Apparently I should." She agreed.

"Sleep well, Emma."

"You too, Killian."

Emma ended the call, somewhat surprised to find herself still cocooned in her closet amongst her winter jackets and boots. In the dark. Alone.

Killian wasn't actually there. He'd never been there. But for a while there, it had sure felt like it. Now the space felt oddly empty, with only the ghost of Killian's reassuring words left reverberating in Emma's ears. She buried her face into a particularly fluffy jacket and muffled an exasperated cry.

_What the hell was she doing?_


	4. Chapter 4

Emma was not freaking out. She didn't freak out. She was a carefully controlled person, who had been accused of being an ice queen more times than she could count. She was not standing at the threshold of her walk-in closet, despairing her complete and utter lack of date clothes. Especially not for a fake date with Killian Jones, of all people.

That didn't exactly help her with her complete dearth of outing-appropriate clothing, however. Emma wasn't exactly the frilly, princess type, but she'd bought her fair share of little black dresses and the like over the years. The problem was that she usually reserved these dresses for her _Honeytraps_. That's what Killian had dubbed them, and they were something of a specialty of hers. Surprisingly few bail jumpers turned down drinks invitations from mysterious, leggy blondes. Even the married ones. Perhaps especially the married ones. Of course, the evenings usually ended with some kind of altercation. A surprising number of bail jumpers didn't take the news that their date was a bailbondswoman come to apprehend them too well. The little black dresses never did particularly well out of those evenings. The last one had come out of it with a tear and a nasty bloodstain, the guy having broken his nose falling over a fire hydrant in the middle of his hasty getaway.

Usually, in times of fashion crisis, Mary Margaret's wardrobe was the first port of call, even if her style was perhaps a little too _fussy headmistress_ for Emma's taste. But there was no way Emma was asking for her help with this. She did the books, she _knew _it wasn't for a job. And if it wasn't for a job, that necessitated far too many questions for Emma's liking. She would make do. Like always.

"You should wear the red one," a voice called from the doorway. Emma whipped around to see Henry peeking around door frame, wearing a sheepish grin.

"I thought you were doing your math homework?" Emma's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"All done," he chirped back, studiously avoiding his mother's gaze.

"Oh really?" Emma challenged, stepping towards him. "You know I can tell when someone is lying, right?" She knelt down until they were face to face. Henry didn't last even a second under her scrutiny.

"C'mon please let me help! Please? I'll finish my homework when Ruby is here, I promise!" Emma scratched her chin, apparently thinking. "Please?" It was so much fun to torture the kid sometimes.

"Okay," said Emma, finally. "But you _will _finish it. I'm gonna check when I get back, okay?" Henry nodded his head furiously, and Emma couldn't resist a kiss to the top of his head before she got back to her feet.

"So the red one, you think?"

* * *

><p>The knock at the apartment door came at precisely 7 o'clock. Points for punctuality. Ruby met Emma's eyes over Henry's shoulder, one perfectly tinted eyebrow raised to let her know she was impressed. Emma shook her head, and went to let him in. With a last furtive glance in the mirror by the coat rack, and a last tug at her hem, Emma swung open the door.<p>

_Holy mother of god._

Killian Jones was leaning back against the hallway opposite her door, wearing a languid smile on his lips. He was also wearing sinfully tight leather trousers, a waistcoat over a dark blue button-up and sex hair. Frankly, it was absurd how attractive he was. The words of welcome on Emma's lips died away, as she couldn't help but take in the view. His grin grew more pronounced as his eyes travelled the length of her in reciprocation. Emma felt her exposed skin prickle, wishing she'd gone for a dress with a little more coverage.

"Very nice, Swan," was his eventual verdict, as he pushed himself off the wall and presented his left hand from behind his back with a flourish. He was holding a single red rose between his fingers. It was a ridiculous enough gesture to break Emma from her trance.

"Taking tips from the David Nolan School of Romantic Gestures?" Emma teased, taking the proffered rose with a smile.

"Aye," said Killian, scratching behind one ear. "Sometimes there's nothing wrong with traditional." He winked, but froze at the same time that Emma felt a presence behind her. She whirled around to see Henry standing just behind her, a stern expression on his face.

"You alright kid?" She asked, feeling a little like she'd just been caught making out in front of her father.

"I wanted to talk to Killian." It wasn't a question. Emma looked back at Killian in alarm, and to his credit, he looked just as unnerved, but nodded his assent, sliding around Emma to greet Henry properly.

"Hi lad," he said, bending down a little. "I was thinking maybe you and I should have some words. Good form and all that." Killian gave Henry his most winning smile, but Henry's expression remained unimpressed. Emma just rolled her eyes at all of the male posturing, and went to retrieve her handbag from the dining room table. Ruby was still sitting there, next to Henry's abandoned homework, a sly smile on her lips.

"Emma, if you feel like you need to stay out past your bedtime with this one, I am happy to watch Henry all night," Ruby offered, her own gaze busy sliding down the contours of Killian's chest. "All I ask is for a little detail." Emma rolled her eyes, picking up her bag and rifling through it to make sure all the necessities were intact.

"I'll be back by midnight, before the Bug turns into a pumpkin," Emma assured her.

"Such a pity," Ruby sighed.

"Make sure Henry finishes his homework. And is in bed by 8:30. He can read until 9, but no later than that." Emma looked down at her hands, to find she was still holding the rose. "And put this in water?" she asked, handing it off.

"You got it, boss," Ruby saluted, flower in hand. "And please have fun for me, won't you?" Emma just smiled.

"Thanks for doing this Ruby. I'll see you at 12."

"Call me if you change your mind!" Ruby called after her.

Henry and Killian were engaged in a tense stare-down when Emma approached them again.

"Everything alright here, gentlemen?" They both snapped out of it, looking a little embarrassed. She turned to Henry.

"So what do you think? Is this one okay?" She asked, gesturing to her would-be date, who was currently turning on the puppy dog eyes. Henry screwed up his face in deep thought, now his turn to torture her.

"I think…" he knew how to ratchet up the tension like a pro. "I think he'll do." Killian pretended to be offended by this assault on his character, but Emma whacked him on the arm, and bent down to give Henry a hug.

"Thanks for being so cool about this, kid." She whispered into his neck. "I love you." He hugged her back tightly.

"Love you too, Mom."

"And behave for Ruby, okay?" she warned, breaking their embrace. "No Nerf Guns inside, okay?"

"Okay," he agreed, his eyes wandering in that way that Emma knew meant they were going to break them out as soon as she had left. But you couldn't win 'em all.

"Good night, Henry."

"Good night Mom. Good night, Killian."

And then the door closed behind them, and they were alone at last.

"You alright, love?" Killian asked at once, checking her face for signs of distress. Emma just shook her head and dragged him to the nearest stairwell.

As soon as the door swung shut, Emma leaned her forehead against it, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

"I will be." She tried to concentrate on keeping her breathing even.

"He's a great kid. A little scary, though."

"What did he say to you?" She asked, leaning her head sideways to look at him.

"A gentleman never tells." Emma pushed herself off the wall, and gave him a look. Killian took about five seconds to break under the weight of her stare.

"He asked me what my intentions were, with you." That was precious.

"And what did you say?" Emma felt herself smiling in spite of herself.

"I said my intentions were to feed you dinner!" Emma snorted. Killian looked apologetic. "Yeah, he didn't like that either. He said that if I broke your heart, Uncle David knows people in Southie who could make me disappear." Emma couldn't help it, she burst out laughing, all of that awful tension in her gut spilling out. Killian joined in soon after. They were a couple of maniacs, laughing in a stairwell.

"You're right," Emma said, regaining her composure. "That is a little scary."

* * *

><p>The place Killian had picked for their fake dating debut was a new seafood place in Charlestown, down by the marina. As they were being seated, Emma couldn't help but find herself a little amazed.<p>

"This is a little…" She trailed off, giving the place the onceover. Flattering lighting. Cloth napkins. More than one set of cutlery in front of her, polished to a high sheen. "Not what I was expecting," she finished lamely.

"Thought I was going to take you to a dive bar, Swan? Maybe stop for drive-thru on the way?" She shrugged, as if to say, _well kinda. _Killian just smiled in response, the edges of his eyes crinkling. It was a good look for him.

"I'm not sure if you know this, love, but not every meal need contain a nearly lethal dose of animal fats and red dye number 40." Emma just rolled her eyes. "Likewise, not every evening in my company need end with you tackling someone to the ground, and handcuffing them." Killian sat up a little straighter. "Although…" Killian smirked, and did something borderline illegal with his tongue. "Given the right circumstances, that could be fun too."

Emma felt her cheeks flush, despite her best efforts to keep her face neutral, and raised her glass to take a long, cooling sip of water.

"You do realise that this is a fake first date, right?" she asked, fighting to maintain a professional distance.

"Aye, but that doesn't mean it has to be a mediocre, does it?" Killian winked, leaning back on his chair. "

Mercifully, Emma was saved from any more charm attacks by the prompt arrival of a waiter with an honest-to-goodness cummerbund to take their drink orders. By the time the man had finished cycling through his spiel on the establishment's exhaustive list of recommended wines, and complimented them both on their excellent choices, Killian was back on message. He waited until the waiter was out of earshot before speaking.

"Now that our fake first date is off to a flying start, what say you to assisting me with my side of our little bargain?" He asked breezily, eyes not lifting from his menu. It was almost jarring, the sudden switch from pleasure to business, but Emma, eager to put herself on a more firm footing, grasped at it with both hands.

"So who are we finding?" Killian raised an eyebrow at Emma's overeager tone.

"A charming fellow by the name of August W. Booth."

"The guy's got three initials and _you _can't find him?" Emma's look was incredulous.

"You're right. That would ordinarily be, what do you Americans call it? "A piece of cake?"" Emma rolled her eyes. "The thing is, there is no August W. Booth. He doesn't exist. The DMV haven't heard of him. Nor has there ever been a birth certificate issued with that name. It's a pseudonym. The guy writes children's books. And to my dismay, apparently self-published. There's no record of an August W. Booth on any financials, anywhere. The guy is a ghost."

"And what are you doing chasing the whereabouts of a children's book author, ghost or not?"

"Honestly?" Emma raised one eyebrow, in the universally recognised signal for _what do you think? _

"I think…" Killian hesitated. "I think he's been watching me."

"For real?" Emma regretted it as soon as she said it, she could already see Killian shrinking into himself, and she hastened to fix it. "I mean, is he stalking you, or does he work for someone, or does he just have a thing for attractive Irish guys?"

"You think I'm attractive?" The grin was back, larger than life, and Emma facepalmed. Killian chuckled, running a hand through his already perfectly-mussed hair.

"Shut up." Emma hid herself behind her menu, and Killian just laughed harder. She was rescued from her mortification soon after by a helpful member of the waitstaff, who took great delight in reciting the day's specials, and answering all of Emma's deliberately inane questions. When he finally left, after complimenting them on their excellent selections, Killian nudged Emma's foot under the table.

"I had no idea you were so fascinated by the use of tomato in clam chowder, love," Killian smirked. Emma kicked his foot, and grinned a little at his slight wince of pain. "I see you are not ready to admit to exactly how attractive you find me," Killian wheezed, through a burst of pain. Emma snorted. "So I'll spare the lady's sensibilities" Killian bowed with dramatic flourish, "and digress." Emma nodded gratefully.

"Tell me about this Booth guy."

"Alright," Killian scratched behind one ear. "But don't say I didn't warn you. It's… odd. I first noticed him about a month ago. He was sitting in the diner I go for breakfast most mornings. Not so weird. It's Allston, after all. It would be weird if there _wasn't _a hipster writer type hanging around." He looked up to make sure Emma was listening, and she gave him a _go on _motion. "I saw him every day that week, sometimes in the diner, sometimes outside, next to a typically retro looking motorbike. And before you ask, I ran the plates. The bike is a rental. I talked to the agency he rented from, and it turns out they are _woefully _bad at keeping records. By which I mean to say, he paid them an extortionate sum of money to keep his name off the books."

"That's suspicious."

"I agree, love. So in the second week, I start going to the Starbucks around the corner from my apartment instead. And every morning, he's there. Inside or out near the bike. That's creepy, I think. But then again, maybe the guy just likes Pumpkin Spice Lattes? So the next week, I walk three blocks over and go to the coffee shop there. Guess who shows up? Same character."

"Definitely suspicious."

"So the next morning, I sit down across the table from Mr August W. Booth and we have ourselves a little chat. I get his name, or his moniker, anyway, his profession and a copy of his latest book. I ask him if he's following me, and he doesn't answer me. He doesn't seem intimidated by the questions, or flustered, and he doesn't try to deny anything. If anything, he just seems kind of amused."

"And then what?"

"And then I got a call from you, darling, telling me to come and help you carry a 200 pound unconscious man out of an alley." Killian shrugged. "Just a regular morning in the big city."

"Have you seen him since?"

"Just once, outside The Rabbit Hole on Friday. But he took off on that damn motorcycle of his before I could get a hold of him."

"Huh."

"Aye." Killian leaned back finally, breathing an audible sigh. "So what say you, Swan? Do you take the case?"

Emma leant across to grasp Killian's hand in hers for a firm handshake. A gentleman's handshake.

"I'm absolutely in."


	5. Chapter 5

Something was off with Mary Margaret.

From the second Emma had stepped into the office, ponytail still askew from her latest tangle with an errant skip, this one ending in a literal tangle at the bottom of a mall escalator, something hadn't been quite right.

Her greeting smile was just a little too bright. The rhythmic tap of her fingertips to her keyboard was just a little too jaunty. The loop in her signature as she signed off on Emma's check was just a little too dramatic.

Something was up. And it was either something very right, or very, very wrong.

"Mary Margaret?" She raised her face from her computer screen to look up at Emma, at once arranging her expression to be as open and accommodating as possible. Considering that open and accommodating were Mary Margaret's default settings, the end result was a hideous caricature of the woman she knew.

Fuck.

She knew.

Emma's stomach dropped. Why hadn't she anticipated this? Her social circle wasn't that big. Henry knew. And Ruby knew. Oh god. _Ruby._

"Who told you? Ruby? It was Ruby, wasn't it? Son of a bitch!"

"Told me? Told me what?" Mary Margaret was good at a great many things. Accountancy. Knitting. Archery, oddly enough. Grossing people out with constant public displays of affection with her husband. Taking in stray people and making them feel loved. What she really, really sucked at, though, was lying.

"Don't even try with me," Emma warned.

"I really have no idea what you-" she trailed off when she saw the sharp look in Emma's eye. "Ruby might've mentioned-" she mumbled.

"I fucking _knew_ it!" Emma shot out of her chair, and started pacing the waiting room. "I _knew_ asking a friend of yours would backfire, I_ knew_ it. But Henry really loves her, and I didn't have anyone else to ask really, except you, and I couldn't tell _you_ and-"

"Hey, Emma… Emma, calm down." Mary Margaret stood up and grasped Emma by the shoulders, and pulled her back into her seat. "Everything is fine, okay?"

"No… no, it's a nightmare." Emma buried her head in her hands. "A complete fucking nightmare."

"But Ruby said… it went really well?" Mary Margaret looked suddenly uncertain. It took Emma a second to figure out what she was talking about. Oh, right. The date. The fake date. The fake date that went really well. The one that had, actually gone… really well. But Emma wasn't going to focus on that. Not when her life was flashing before her eyes.

"What? No, it was fine. That's not… I have to make a call." She left Mary Margaret sitting at her desk, mouth agape, and barricaded herself in the side office. It was the one she and Killian shared when they needed to do computer research, which was depressingly often.

Sitting down at Killian's desk, she rifled through each drawer, finally hitting pay dirt in the bottom drawer. Killian's very own stash of Captain Morgan, still unopened, for emergencies. This _absolutely_ counted. Cracking the cap, Emma took a long swig from the bottle before she found the courage to press the speed-dial.

"Jones." He sounded out of breath.

"She knows!"

"Swan?"

"She knows!" She could hear the hysteria pushing her voice to previously unknown octaves, but she couldn't quite control it.

"Swan! Slow down, take a breath and start again. This time, using full sentences and names."

Emma took a second. Full sentences. Names. She could do that. She took another swig from the bottle.

"Mary Margaret knows about the date. Ruby told her."

There was silence at first, then distant cursing. And then came the sound of boots crunching on gravel, and Killian's labored breathing.

"What are you doing?" Emma couldn't help the curiosity peeking through her panic.

"Currently? Chasing Gerry Whale through his brother's back garden."

"Oh."

Her timing had always been terrible.

"Where are you?"

"In the office." Suddenly there was a mess of commotion over the line. Distant crashes, thumps, and cursing from two distinct voices. Emma waited.

"Still there, Swan?" Killian asked, a minute later, breath ragged.

"Yep."

"I've got Gerry Whale. I'll be there in an hour, okay? Don't freak out." The connection ended, and Emma replaced the phone on the desk, next to the bottle of rum.

Don't freak out. Sure.

* * *

><p>True to his word, not forty five minutes later, there came a rap at the door, followed by a low murmur of voices, which ceased when Killian gently pried opened the door and stuck his head around to assess the situation.<p>

"May I come in?" he asked, gently. Emma nodded, and he slipped inside, closing the door firmly shut behind him. Fresh from his successful take-down of Gerry Whale, he looked a sight. His dark grey button-down, stained with sweat, was missing a front pocket, and there was a tear in the left sleeve. There was even a bit of greenery still stuck in his hair, which was looking even more disheveled than usual. And whilst Emma was assessing him, he was taking in the three-quarters full bottle of rum sitting on his desk, and Emma's stricken expression.

"Well, you know what they say, love, it's 5 o' clock somewhere!" He plastered on a grin, ambling forward.

"Don't." Emma's voice faltered. The grin quickly vanished from his face, and he shifted across to sit on the edge of his desk, his feet leaning on Emma's chair to keep her in place.

"Mary Margaret is worried about you."

"Why didn't I see this coming?" Emma asked, mostly to herself. Killian sighed, and reached over to grab the bottle. Instead of confiscating it, as Emma suspected he would, he unscrewed the cap and took a deep swig himself.

"Aye," he said, brushing the remaining rum from his lips with his fingers. "Our little ruse has become somewhat more complicated."

"I'm so sorry. I had no idea it would get back to them. If you want to just forget the whole thing, I understand…" Emma trailed off.

"_That's_ why you're in here having a panic attack and drinking all of _my _rum?" Killian seemed surprised. "You're worried about how this affects _me_?"

"Of course I am! This isn't just about me anymore. David and Mary Margaret are _your_ employers too, _your_ friends. Lying to them was never part of the deal."

"So?"

"So?!" Emma couldn't understand how he was being so calm about this. "Aren't you a little worried about how they are going to react? What effect it will have on working together? What they'll do if they find out the truth? What they'll think-" Killian reached across to grab one wrist, stopping Emma in the middle of her tirade, casting a warning glance at the door, behind which Mary Margaret was surely lurking. It had the desired effect. Emma bit her lip to prevent more words spilling out.

"Swan, allow me to be clear." He turned his blue eyes to hers. "When I agreed to this, I was hung-over." The crinkles around his eyes were back, and in spite of herself, Emma felt herself smiling with the stupid accuracy of his words. "And my pride was bruised. Much like yours had been." He began to rub small circles into the wrist he was holding, and she felt herself relax slightly. "I felt an odd sense of kinship with you in that moment, and so I made a decision. It was a stupid one, aye, but I've done far worse in my life than pretend to date a beautiful woman for a few weeks." He shrugged. "In fact, on the scale of Killian Jones's all-time stupidest ideas, it probably doesn't even break the top fifty."

"That was a very nice little speech." Emma's mind was still stuck on _beautiful. _

"Thank you." Killian grinned, tipping an imaginary cap. Emma shook herself out of the spell of his blue, blue eyes.

"And Mary Margaret and David won't find any of this concerning? Just because they are the shining example of mixing business and pleasure, doesn't mean they'll be thrilled to find their employees…" Emma had trouble finding the right words.

"Getting off behind their backs?" Killian supplied helpfully.

"We're not-" Emma stopped when she saw Killian's sly grin. He almost caught her. She hurried to amend her words. "Will they really be okay with us dating?"

"You do realize that you are talking about a couple that I regularly catch in some sort of compromising position in the office, at least once a week, right? It would be rather hypocritical of them to enact a double standard in their employees." That was true. But that wasn't what Emma was worried about. Killian seemed to know that. "If what I saw in the waiting room just now is an indication, underneath the concern about your little… disappearing act…" he raised an accusing eyebrow at that, "Mary Margaret seemed kind of… excited about it?" Emma was afraid of that. "Oh, you know what she's like." Killian shrugged. "She's all about happy endings and love in unexpected places." Killian punctuated each word with an appropriate note of sarcasm. "She eats that stuff for breakfast. It's Dave I'm more worried about."

"David, really?" He was by far the more casual of the two.

"Don't pretend you don't know he's appointed himself as your fatherly protector." Emma rolled her eyes, though it was true. "I'll wager he won't be too pleased about a man with my… _reputation… _romancing his surrogate daughter." Killian had a point. David was the only person who knew the full extent of Emma's messy history with Neal, and the first time the two men had been in a room together, it had come to blows. David certainly took his assumed responsibilities towards Emma seriously.

"I see what you mean." Emma gritted her teeth.

"I can handle David, love. That isn't my concern. I just don't want to be left alone, holding up one half of a lie. Because then David really will knock my block off. Understand?"

"Got it."

"It's just for a couple of weeks. Then everything can go back to normal."

"Will it though?" Emma had seen the spark in Mary Margaret's eyes. It wasn't good.

"Sure," he shrugged. "We'll invent some codswallop excuse about deciding we're better off friends. Everyone will be wary for a couple of weeks, and then they'll forget that it was ever any different."

"You're really fine with this?"

"Swan, exactly who are we hurting here? We're doing a couple of dinners and a weekend in Maine. I hardly think their lives, or mine, will be so adversely affected."

"Not interfering with your busy social life?" Killian elected to ignore that.

"And in return, you're helping me with my writer problem. The question is, can _you _lie to your friends?"

"I honestly don't think I have a choice." Emma shrugged. "I mean, I don't _want_ to lie to them. When I first met Mary Margaret, I was living with a toddler in a motel that charged by the hour. David was a character witness at my custody hearing. I owe them both more than I could ever pay back, but…"

"But?"

"Mary Margaret has the world's worst poker face. I mean, you should have seen her when I walked in. It took her about a minute to completely come undone. If she knows, half of Greater Boston will know within the hour, and that includes…" The word _Henry _floated between them, unspoken. They shared a look.

"So we continue as before," Killian summarized.

"Yeah. Only now with a few more people to fool in between dates." Emma's voice was flat.

"Cheer up, love, my dates aren't _that_ bad." He pulled Emma forward slightly by one wrist, which she was surprised to find he was still holding, and let his words take on a more intimate tone. "I know for a fact you had fun last night, despite all of your scruples telling you not to."

"It was a nice place," Emma answered diplomatically, her lip twitching with the effort to keep her expression level. Killian pretended to be affronted.

"Nice place? _Nice place!? _Champagne and oysters and _very smooth moves _and she says _nice place!?" _He raged at an imaginary public, who would surely take his side on the matter. "My very reputation as a dashing lothario is at stake here, Swan!" Emma couldn't contain her laughter anymore, and broke their contact to wipe the tears free from her eyes as she struggled to pull herself together. Killian was still regarding her with mock hurt, waiting for her to get her breath back. He puffed out his chest dramatically. "You just wait for what I have in store for date number two, and then we'll see who is so unimpressed." The tone was haughty, and sort of adorable.

"You've already got something in mind?" Emma was genuinely curious. Killian broke character to offer a single sly wink.

"Friday night good for you, Swan?" Emma nodded, reaching over to remove a stray leaf from his hair, twisting it between her fingers with an amused smile.

"Excellent," he said, leaning forward to brush his lips to Emma's cheek, grinning as she glared at him. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to go home and wash the remnants of Victor Whale's pretentious fucking herb garden off my skin." He stood up fully, offered Emma a hand, which she took, rising to her feet beside him.

"Thank you, Killian." Emma didn't release his hand until he saw she meant it.

"I know, I know, I'm a bloody marvel." He shrugged off both her gratitude and her hand. "Now go put Mary Margaret out of her misery. She's only been pacing outside that door for the last hour." He took a few steps towards the door, then seemed to reconsider before turning back around. "And don't touch my rum again."

With one last wink in her direction, Killian disappeared through the door, leaving it unlatched on his way out. Not even a closed door stood between Emma and her next lie. Taking a last pull of rum, and savoring the burn of it down her throat, Emma steeled herself for the next great hurdle.

Dealing with Mary Margaret's excitement.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hey there awesome people who have made my year so far with all of the following and reviews and reading. Real life is getting a bit busier, and my posting schedule might be getting a little more unreliable. Fair warning.**

Killian was right. August W. Booth didn't exist. He didn't show up on any database Emma had access to, nor any that her cop friend, Graham had access to, once she'd bought his favour with a box of bear claws. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

The only place August W. Booth's name appeared in print, was on the front cover of the book that Killian had brought over that morning.

* * *

><p>He hadn't even waited for an invitation to be let in, he'd just winked at Emma's pink flannel pajamas (a gift from Henry) and breezed past her into the kitchen. By the time she'd recovered from the suddenness of it all and followed him back down the hall, he had already stolen half of the bacon off her plate, and was busy offering Henry suggestions on how to make his volcano for Science class a little more explosive.<p>

"Hey," Emma slapped his hands away from her plate before he could take any more. "Bacon is sacred in this house." Henry nodded in solemn agreement, before swallowing a mouthful of his own.

"My apologies, milady," Killian bowed in an overly dramatic fashion, but it didn't stop him from taking a sip of coffee from her mug. Emma rolled her eyes and shoved him out of the way so she could take her seat at the table. He just stood there looking adorably forlorn until Emma took pity on him.

"Mugs are in the cupboard above the sink. There's more coffee in the pot." He grinned, and went to fix himself a cup.

"Are you here for a reason, or did you just want to eat me out of house and home?" Emma asked, pointing her fork at the stray Irishman, once he'd taken a place beside her at the table.

"Maybe I just wanted to see you?" His usual winning smile was less effective with a mouthful of stolen toast. Emma raised one eyebrow, and Killian's gaze flickered briefly towards Henry, who was busy stuffing his face with scrambled egg. _All part of the ruse? _He swallowed down the last of his toast.

"I'm going to Martha's Vineyard today to check out Jim Holt's uncle's summer home. I have reason to believe that his errant nephew might be holed up there."

"You don't want me to go with you?" Emma asked. "I mean, the guy is a personal trainer. You probably can't outrun him on your own."

"Questioning my stamina, Swan?" Emma almost choked on her coffee, and shot Killian a warning glare over the top of her mug. _There's a child present. _He continued on, undeterred. "That won't be necessary. I'll admit, chasing fitness types is always a hassle, but I figure that with it being an island, I've something of an advantage. There's only so many exits. I also probably won't make it back in time for you to pick up the lad from school." He said, nodding at Henry.

"What did he do?" Henry interrupted, glancing between the two adults.

"Oh, he err…" Killian looked over at Emma in alarm. _Solicitation_. Jim Holt had been picked up for solicitation. She gave a slight shake of her head, and Killian scrambled for a more palatable alternative. "Merely a wee bit of larceny," he answered smoothly. Henry still looked confused.

"He stole things. Expensive things." Emma explained.

"Oh." Henry returned his attention to his eggs, and Killian's shoulders slumped in relief.

"I was hoping however…" Killian reached across to his satchel he'd dropped on the table earlier, and pulled out a large book, with an old-fashioned leather-bound cover. "That you would have a look at this for me?"

"Is that…?" Emma lowered her voice, and Killian followed suit.

"Aye. August Booth's book. The one he gave me. I was hoping it could shed a little light on our dear Mr. Booth, and his intentions, but I'm afraid I couldn't find anything especially illuminating. I thought maybe fresh eyes would help?"

"Sure." She pulled it towards her, to get a better look. "I'm on the case." She glided her hands over the embossed title, and Killian regarded her for a few moments, before pushing his chair out and standing up from the table.

"Excellent! Well, I can see I have intruded," Emma gave him an arch look at that, "But if I leave now I should make the 10 o' clock ferry, so I should be going." He picked up his satchel, slung it over his shoulders, and made a show of checking all of its straps and pockets.

Before she could ask what the hold-up was, she received a kick under the table, from Henry.

"What?" she mouthed silently at her son, who fixed her with an exasperated look. He made a none-too-subtle jerk of his head towards the door.

"And apparently, I'm walking you out." Emma rose from the table, poking her tongue out at Henry before motioning for Killian to follow her to the door.

With another exaggerated bow, he did, until they were out of view of Henry.

"If my kid gets third degree burns attempting to make Elephant Toothpaste, that's on you." She whirled around to poke him in the chest. Instead of shrinking from her attack, as she expected, he took a step forward, until her hand was on his chest, and they were almost nose to nose.

"Vinegar and bicarbonate soda is so overdone, Swan. Don't you want him to stand out?" He was standing far too close, his blue eyes drawing her in, so she averted her gaze to the tiny scar on his right cheek. One day she'd ask him how he got it.

"After all, what's life without a little adventure, darling?" His breath brushed her cheek, and Emma felt herself flush with the proximity of him, and the underlying challenge. Her eyes flicked back to his. Definitely a challenge. And that's when she did something, really, really stupid.

She closed the minimal distance between them, and kissed him.

His lips were warm, salty from stolen bacon, and deceptively soft. At first, he didn't respond, and Emma stepped back ready to break the kiss, until she felt a hand twist in her hair, and Killian stepped forward, his lips chasing her own. She let herself be dragged back into his orbit, losing herself momentarily in the feel of him. And when she heard the tell-tale footsteps of approaching tiny feet on the floorboards, she used the hand that had somehow become entangled in his shirt, to break them apart.

It hadn't been a long kiss. A few seconds. No tongue. Practically chaste. But when she pulled back, Emma saw the visible effect it had had on Killian. His pupils were blown back, his irises a darker shade of blue, something unnameable flickering across his features as he looked at her, gaining his breath back. She was out of breath herself.

"Mom! We're going to be late." Henry's voice cut right through the tension. Emma and Killian took a sudden step away from each other. Henry peeked around the corner, to regard the two of them. "He hasn't gone yet?"

"Just a second, Henry." Emma's voice came out weird, wobbly. She tried to affix him with a half-way threatening glance over Killian's shoulder, but he seemed unperturbed.

"You guys are gross," Henry sighed, disappearing again.

Emma turned her attention back to Killian, who was now dragging his fingers across his lips in a slightly dazed way.

"That was…" he began.

"Convincing." Emma cut in. She avoided his gaze as she steered him towards the door. "And I have a kid who is late for school, and you have a ferry to catch." She unlocked the deadbolt and threw open the door.

"Aye," he replied, his voice steadier also. He wasn't looking at her either. "I'll see you tomorrow." He went to lean forward, rethought that, and with an awkward kind of salute, he disappeared through the open door.

Emma immediately closed the door behind him, leaning her forehead against the cool wood.

_Convincing?_

It was probably for the best Killian was headed out of town.

* * *

><p>Twelve hours later, curled up on the couch watching Henry play at being a medieval knight on his Xbox, Emma found herself idly flicking through August Booth's book, not at all replaying the morning's events on a loop in her head, trying to figure out what exactly she had done.<p>

A large part of her could comfort herself with facts. Killian was her fake boyfriend. She was trying to convince Henry of this fact. So she'd kissed him, knowing Henry would cotton on.

The smaller, and yet more niggling part of her told her that she hadn't cared what Henry could or could not glean from the situation.

She'd just… wanted to.

And yeah, that was a problem.

It wasn't that he wasn't attractive. He was _plenty _attractive. It wasn't that they worked together, although that came with its own hellish complications, Mary Margaret's overeager girl-talk still fresh in her mind. It wasn't that he liked to whore around, although that was the general understanding. It wasn't she hadn't felt anything in that kiss. She'd felt… _something. _And by the look on his face when they'd broken apart, she hadn't been the only one.

It was that he kind of, sort of… got her?

It didn't escape Emma, the irony that two people who had been abandoned repeatedly, worked in a professional capacity returning wayward people to face up to their responsibilities. It probably hadn't been a coincidence.

But it was more than the tumultuous upbringings, the abandonments. Emma had long ago realized, the hard way, that two broken people together didn't make a whole. They just made for a hell of a lot of baggage.

It was more about… showing up. People, as a rule, didn't do that. Parents. Foster parents. Neal. Every subsequent guy.

Killian did.

Even when the situation called for tackling a notorious streaker running loose on Boston Common, or climbing the fire escape to cover the back of a fifth floor walk-up of a woman who had gambled her employees' entire pension plans away, he was always there, with a sardonic comment and a lazy grin, no matter what.

Which was the problem. No one sticks around forever. And the more you think they might, the more it hurts when they leave.

Which is why her and Killian Jones were never going to happen. Not for real.

* * *

><p>A day of inquiries hadn't turned up anything yet on August, so Emma resisted the urge to call him. After that morning, distance was probably for the best. All was similarly quiet on the Killian front. The only update she'd gotten on the Holt case had come in the form of a single text message, at about 3pm.<p>

**Did you know Jim Holt runs marathons? Motherfucker. KJ**

Emma shook off the image of Killian chasing down a man with superior cardiovascular fitness around and around Martha's Vineyard, to hilarious effect, to re-examine August Booth's book.

If it was truly self-published at a vanity press, as Killian had suspected, then the guy hadn't spared any expense. The cover was leather. The good stuff. The title, _Once Upon A Time, _was embossed in gold. The pages were heavy. Good quality.

This was a clue in of itself. That kind of workmanship was rare. Vanity presses were more in the _let's exploit all your writerly ambitions for maximum profit _line of work, than turning out stuff like this. Emma already had a contact who worked in a second-hand bookshop off Harvard Square who was trying to track down the publisher, but she hadn't heard back yet.

The book itself was just a collection of fairy tales, featuring all of the usual suspects. Snow White. Cinderella. Rumpelstiltskin. Even so, they weren't quite the stories she remembered from watching Disney movies growing up. Booth had subverted a lot of the original stories, adding new twists and arcs. But it was still… just fairy tales.

A part of Emma had hoped that the book had been part of a message to Killian. Why else had August given it to him? To prove he was an author? _Please_. Even distressed hipsters from Allston didn't hand out free copies of their own books in coffee shops to hot guys they were stalking. Especially without leaving a number. Unless the point was the futility? Just to watch him chase his own tail chasing down a _nom de plume_?

Actually, now Emma thought about it, that was maybe exactly why he'd given it to him.

A distraction. But to distract him from what?

Killian didn't have any outstanding skips. Nor Emma. They always got their man. There was a reason David kept them around, and it wasn't because he appreciated the witty banter or the food trash that lined the bottom of his truck after they borrowed it for stake outs.

"Mom?" Emma abandoned her theories, looking up to see Henry staring down at her sleepily, his game abandoned.

"Hey, sleepyhead. Time for bed?" She ruffled his hair.

"I almost got to Level 19! But I got killed by the dragon in the demon's lair."

"Oh. Well next time, 'kay?"

"Uh huh." Childish curiosity compelled him to see what Emma was holding. "Is that the book Killian gave you?" He traced his fingers over the cover.

Emma had never been much of a reader, growing up. She was much more interested in libraries as a source of refuge from shitty foster homes than as a source of stories. Henry was different. The kid liked books. Always had. And this one was more impressive than most.

"Uh… yeah. It's for a case. Sort of."

"Can I read it?" He was pulling major puppy dog eyes. Killian would have been proud.

"I don't know… it's not really mine to lend out, you know?"

"What if I promise not to take it outside the apartment? And I'll be really careful? Please?" Emma had always been a sucker for puppy dog eyes. And she'd already had a flick through. It was weird. But it was PG, more or less.

"Oh, what the hell," she said, handing it to him. "Knock yourself out. I hope you like fairy tales, kid."

Henry held it in his hands like it was something precious, shooting her a wide grin in thanks, and not for the first time, Emma wondered how someone like her managed to have a kid like Henry. Happy. Well-adjusted. Smart. Kind. Was there a part of her that was still like that, deep down? Something she'd passed on in the genes? Somehow she doubted it.

"No reading tonight though, okay? Your eyes are already practically dragging out of your skull. It's bed time, but make sure you brush your teeth first!" Henry just rolled his eyes, but he gave her a hug anyway, and scampered down the hallway to the bathroom.

Leaning back on the arm of the couch, Emma let out a large sigh. No more thought of kisses or hipsters on motorcycles or fairy tale princesses in distress tonight. That was the plan. She was going to queue something up on Netflix, and forget. And that worked for about ten minutes, until her cell phone buzzed on the coffee table.

**Good night, Swan. KJ**

And there it was.

Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, Killian Jones was thinking of her. And it was a problem. But it also wasn't.

'**Night Jones. ES**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Happy weekend, you rascals. To all my fellow Australians, Happy 227 years since this country was set upon by some dudes with a flag and some ships and stuff and things invariably happened. Use your federally mandated day off to be decent to your fellow man. And if you have to work that day, as I do, I hope you get wicked penalty rates.**

Friday mornings were always a little sluggish in the Swan household. Where the week would always begin with great intentions; freshly squeezed orange juice and cooked breakfasts on the table, maybe a workout DVD before Henry awoke; by week's end everything inevitably went to hell. The snooze button always won out, in the end.

Which was how Emma came to be standing in the Starbucks line, late for work, having just ran the gamut of the school drop-off procedure, from signing permission slips to getting him through the school gate just before the final bell, all without a single drop of caffeine. It was not a great morning. And when her phone started ringing in her bag just as she reached the cashier, she knew it wasn't going to get any better.

With an apologetic glance at the cashier, she hurried through her standard order, digging through her bag for the ringing phone.

"Hi, I know I'm late, I'll be five minutes." The cashier at the counter rose an eyebrow, surveying the huge morning crowd. "Maybe ten," she amended.

"Uh, Emma?" _Oh. _ Neal. Not David on the line, inquiring to her whereabouts, as she had suspected. She cursed herself for not looking at the display first.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't look before I answered. I thought you were…"

"That's fine. Look, I was wondering if I could maybe pick Henry up from school today, and have him over the weekend?" There was a beat. "The whole weekend, this time."

"You're in town?" Emma looked around, as if expecting to see him peering at her from a nearby table.

"Maine. Again. Some in-law stuff, but we're headed back down today."

"Oh. That isn't a lot of notice…"

"Are you really going to be like this?"

"Like what?"

"Combative? C'mon Ems, it's too early for this." It really was. Emma still hadn't had her coffee yet.

"I'm not being combative. I didn't say no."

"Your tone suggests otherwise."

"There's no tone." There was absolutely a tone.

"Can I take him, or not?"

"Fine. But you have to call the school and leave a message for him, so he knows what is going on."

"Doesn't he have an emergency cell phone for that?"

"He uh… he dropped it off the fire escape a couple of days ago. Along with a tennis ball. Wanted to see which one would land first. Channeling Galileo or some shit. I swear, I don't know where he gets half of these ideas from."

"Christ, Ems." He was going for disappointed, but there a chuckle hidden behind the words. "Ten years old and already experimenting with gravity?"

"Don't worry, he's since been schooled in City ordinances that forbid dropping objects from apartment buildings. He now lives in constant fear of arrest." Neal chuckled for real this time.

"Do you want me to get him a new phone?"

"You're offering?" Emma hadn't expected that.

"Sure. I mean, why not? He's my son too. We can probably add it to our family plan."

Neal had a _family plan? _Emma felt her stomach drop.

When they had been together, Neal had a duffel bag and a stolen Volkswagen. Now he had a _family plan!?_

_Who was this person?_

"Uh, great. Sure." Still, if he was going to be nice, she wasn't going to deter him.

There was a pause. One second too long.

"So how're things with the leprechaun?" She should have known. Scrap that. She _had_ known. No conversation with Neal ever went smoothly.

"You had to fucking ruin it, didn't you?" Emma sighed.

"I'm just showing a healthy concern."

"_Sure_ you are. _Killian _is fine. We're fine. He's taking me out on a date tonight, actually."

"Like an actual out-in-public date?"

"What, like I'm incapable?"

"No… like you actually like him." The tone was pure surprise.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, I just… never mind. It doesn't matter. I'll call the school, set everything up. See you Sunday. About 5?" And then he hung up before Emma could ask him again what the fuck he meant by that.

"Emma? Venti Americano?" The voice of the harried barista rose above the din of the crowd. It was enough to snap Emma from glaring at her phone. Caffeine. Beautiful caffeine. At last.

She barely got to savor a single sip, before her phone started ringing in her hand again.

"Seriously?" she said to no one. This time, it really was David.

"I know, I know, I'm late. I'll be right there. Five minutes."

* * *

><p>Bail-jumpers came in all types. There were the runners, who'd make a mad dash rather than reschedule a court date. These were the guys who thought they were headed for jail time, and they were usually right. They were the kind running down busy city streets in broad daylight, brandishing garbage cans. Then there were the resigned, who rolled over as soon as you introduced yourself, and came without a fuss. They were the silent majority. And then there were the obstinate, who seemed legitimately puzzled by the idea that they should keep their court appearances. They were the ones who tended to bite when the cuffs were slapped on.<p>

Lacey French, aged 32, did not fit into any of these predetermined categories. Maybe she would've, if she'd been conscious.

Ms. French had missed a court appearance yesterday on her DUI charge. The DUI part had been a bit of a giveaway. A few discreet inquiries with the woman's work colleagues had yielded the address of a local dive, where she was something of a regular. The barman confirmed, pointing out the woman who was passed out on the pool table.

"Seriously?" She asked the barman. "It's noon!"

"Hey, I didn't serve her! She walked in like that. After she failed at ordering a whiskey sour, she fell asleep right on the table!"

"And you didn't think to move her? Call her family?"

"Hey, I've got a bad back, lady. You want to move her? Be my guest! And I know better than to dig around in a woman's purse!" He tossed his bar towel down, and stormed into the back. Emma rolled her eyes, pulling out her phone.

There was only one person to call.

"Jones."

"Hey."

"Swan?" The tone was wary. He knew her too well.

"Are you back in Boston?"

"Aye. And who is it that I shall be carrying today?" He definitely knew her too well.

"Lacey French. DUI."

"Poundage?"

"120?"

"Run out of overweight embezzlers for me, love? This is a pleasant surprise!"

"Something like that. She's passed out on a pool table." Emma walked over to the prone woman, and nudged her foot, as it hung over the edge of the table. Not even a twitch. She was down for the count.

"Your handiwork?"

"More the handiwork of Mr. Jack Daniels."

"Ah. Maybe I should stop for coffee and a bucket as well."

"Probably a good idea, if you value your upholstery. I'm at the Lucky Prince, in the Back Bay."

"Aye, I know it. No Guinness on tap and the barman is a right git, if I remember." Emma glanced at the entrance to the back room, where the guy had disappeared.

"You remember correctly."

"Be there in fifteen, love."

* * *

><p>Here's there in twelve, striding through the door, two piping hot coffees in hand. How he could get coffee so fast during the lunch hour was a mystery. One which probably involved unleashing borderline illegal doses of charm, and a side of sexy accent on some poor, impressionable counter girl.<p>

He offered one to Emma, and placed the other on the bar.

"Hey, no outside beverages!" The barman was back.

"Do you want me to leave her here?" Emma jerked her thumb at the indisposed Ms. French. She met the guy's gaze squarely, and waited for him to crumble. Which he did, eventually. Of course.

"Just get her out of here," he mumbled, wiping the bar over a few more times for no reason other than to appear relevant. Emma took a smug sip from her coffee, and if she burnt her tongue in the process, she didn't let it show.

Killian checked Lacey for any signs of approaching wakefulness. As if in response to his inquiries, she let out a sudden snore, before becoming eerily still once more.

"Yep. This one is a goner." He nudged Lacey's arm for good measure. Nothing. "Shall we, Swan?" He rolled up the sleeves of his jacket, and leaned forward to scoop up the woman. 120 pounds of dead weight, and he acted as if it wasn't a big thing.

"My car, I presume?"

"Unless you want to be the one to cram her into the back of my Bug?"

"My car," he agreed, leading the way.

* * *

><p>"So…" he began.<p>

"So?" They were in his car, headed for the police station. Lacey French was in the backseat, snoring softly. At least she was exhibiting signs of life.

"Still on for tonight?" He seemed unsure.

"For the second fake-date that you guaranteed would impress me?" She grinned at him, but he didn't return it.

"Aye," he scratched behind his ear, one hand still on the wheel. "That one."

"Are you alright?" Emma asked, watching him carefully. "You seem kind of... off?"

For the last hour, he'd been strangely quiet. Less jovial than usual. She hadn't been dodging wisecracks and innuendos at every turn.

"I'm fine, love." _Lie. _Emma could tell these things.

She wondered if it was the kiss.

Killian Jones had been a flirt and a rascal every day for the last five years. And every day Emma had rolled her eyes at his ridiculous innuendos and waggling eyebrows. Until yesterday. And maybe, maybe that had caught him off guard. He hadn't changed their dynamic, after all. He was just being… Killian. She was the one that had kissed him.

Oh god. She'd made things awkward.

She'd made things awkward and now he probably was trying to tell her to step off.

"I mean, we don't have to. But Henry is at Neal's for the weekend, so I don't even have to get Ruby to babysit…"

"And how is the loquacious Ms. Lucas?" He asked, some interest sparking back into his eyes. Probably because, hello, Ruby.

"Texts me daily for updates on you, actually. Uses words like "mancake". I assure you, it's terrifying." He threw his head back and laughed heartily. It was kind of nice, to see him regain a little bit of humor.

"And pray tell, Swan, what kind of updates are you sending back?" There's a glimmer of the old Killian in the question.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she asked, coyly, taking another sip of coffee.

"Perhaps I would?" She glanced over her coffee cup at him. Flirting. He was definitely flirting. Maybe everything wasn't as bad as she feared.

"Sure." She answered finally. "We're still on for tonight."

* * *

><p>"Where are you taking me?" Emma grumbled, pulling her scarf, a Mary Margaret original, a little tighter around herself. It was October, and it was starting to get a little too cold to be traipsing through parklands at night.<p>

"Uh uh, Swan. It's a surprise." Killian looked back to check she was still following, but continued leading ahead, flashlight in hand.

"Are you finding a secluded place to kill me? Is that the surprise?" Killian merely chuckled, pausing ahead of her at a wrought iron fence. Emma scanned the sign by the gate with the light of her cell phone.

"The Arboretum? You know this place is closed, right?"

"Is it now?" he winked.

"Uh, yes?" she tapped the sign with her gloved hand. The hours of operation clearly stated the park was shut after dusk.

"Not to everyone." Even in the dim torchlight, she saw his teeth flash white.

"You know, I'm not 17 anymore. I don't find trespassing on dates all that alluring anymore."

"Trespassing? I don't know what you mean, love." And Killian produced a key from his jacket pocket, and began wrangling with the ancient padlock.

"And how did you get that?" Emma's hands were on her hips.

"I know a man who knows a man." He shrugged, grinning all the same.

"You're right. Low-level corruption. Way hotter than trespassing." Killian merely winked, before the lock finally broke free, and he pushed the gate open with a squeal of unoiled hinges.

"After you, darling." With some trepidation, Emma stepped forward into the park proper.

"You sure about this?" She asked, wrapping herself tighter into her coat.

"You'll see, Swan."

* * *

><p>They'd been walking along an uphill trail in the dark for some time when Emma heard it.<p>

"What was that?" she asked, freezing in place.

Emma was a city girl. Give her dimly lit alleyways and shady parking lots, and she knew what to expect. Where the danger was coming from, how to defend herself. But here, amongst the trees, anything could be lurking, and she had zero wilderness skills to help her. Foster kids didn't go on many camping trips.

"It's alright, love" came Killian's voice, soft in the dark. He placed a gentle hand on the small of her back, to keep her moving forward. "It's just William."

"William?" And that was then they broke through the tree line, and emerged on the top of the hill.

The very hill from which one could see all the lights of Boston's skyline, laid out below.

"Wow." She staggered back a step, her back making contact with Killian's chest. She went to move away, but he grabbed an elbow and held her steady.

"Like it, Swan?" He whispered in her ear. He was so close, she felt the hot breath on her neck. And it didn't affect her at all. Not one bit. The brisk October air was causing the shivering, of that she was certain. She open her mouth to respond, but found she couldn't. She nodded instead.

"Good." He released her elbow, and ducked off to the left, where there was what appeared to be two deckchairs set up, along with a picnic basket, a glowing lantern, and a bearded guy in a red beanie, smiling proudly. He and Killian shared a manly hug.

"And this is William. The nightwatchman who has so graciously allowed us to borrow his view." Killian gestured to his friend.

"William, Emma. Emma, William." Emma stuck out her hand to shake his, and was caught off guard when William raised her hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles.

"The pleasure is all mine." He said. His accent wasn't local either, but he didn't have half the charm of his friend.

"Alright," said Killian, nudging William aside. "That's enough of that."

"Back to work, I guess," he sighed dramatically. "Have fun, Captain. Emma." With a tip of his beanie to them, he disappeared into the darkness.

Killian collapsed into one of the chairs, and Emma did the same.

"Captain?" She asked, reaching for the picnic basket.

"William and I served in the Navy together, many moons ago. He's never quite gotten used to using my Christian name." Emma had known about the Navy thing. The danger, after all, of working with someone who investigated people for a living, they didn't always stop at clients.

She also knew the part he didn't mention. The dishonorable discharge. She chose not to mention it either.

Instead, Emma opened the picnic basket. Baguettes. Champagne. Twizzlers.

"Seriously?"

"Impressed yet, Swan?" Killian winked, reaching for the bottle.

"This is…" She struggled to find the words. "Have you been taking the David Nolan Romance Master Class?" He popped the cork, and began to pour the champagne into two flutes.

"Contrary to popular belief, one doesn't need the tuition of David Nolan to woo a lady."

"Is that what is going on here? Wooing?"

"Why, do you feel wooed, Swan?" he asked, handing her a flute. Yeah, the flirting was back. Emma didn't reply, just took a sip of champagne. It was really good, and she could already feel it electrifying her insides as it slid down her throat.

"We didn't even toast!" he declared, in mock horror.

"And what are we toasting to?" Emma arched one eyebrow. Killian leaned over to refill her flute, and seemed to be pondering her question.

"To being convincing," he replied finally, clinking his glass with hers, and draining it in one go. His eyes didn't leave hers at any point.

And that's when Emma realized.

Henry wasn't even in town.

There wasn't anyone to convince.

But she'd gone on a date with Killian Jones anyway.

And he knew it.

She drained her glass too.

"Another."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Couldn't leave you hanging, could I?**

Emma awoke to pain. So much pain. She felt like she'd been run over by a truck. Twice. Then like someone had taken a mallet to the back of her skull. Repeatedly. And then like she'd been reversed over by the truck again, for good measure.

She opened one eye. Sunlight. Pain. She closed it. She opened it again. Sunlight emerging from a window in an exposed brick wall. More pain. She closed it again. Emma's bedroom didn't have an exposed brick wall. She opened both eyes. It was still there.

This wasn't her apartment.

_Oh god._

This wasn't her apartment.

Emma sat bolt upright, rewarded with another stab of pain behind her eyes.

The other side of the bed was empty. Good. She checked the clothes situation. She was wearing them. Excellent. In fact, she was wearing all of her clothes from last night. Plus a leather jacket. A leather jacket that smelled like… _Killian. _It was Killian's jacket. Killian's exposed brick wall. Killian's apartment.

Fuck.

"Happy two week anniversary, darling." Emma whirled around, to find Killian sitting on an armchair by the bed. His legs were slung over one arm of the chair and he was looking unbearably smug. She tried to glare at him, but the effort hurt. She tried to say something, but her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth. And then she noticed what he was holding. A glass of water, and what she took for Tylenol. He noticed her gaze shifting, and held them out.

"Thought you might be in need of these." She took them from him, nodded gratefully, and washed the pills down with all of the water. Her ability to talk returned, Emma focused on what she best wanted to convey.

"What the fuck happened last night?" Killian grinned, in a way that made Emma want to slap him upside the head, if the very idea of movement of any kind wasn't painful.

"You tried to drown your attraction to me in champagne. And then you tried to kill it with vodka. And then when that ran out…" He reached across to grab the tumbler that was still sitting on the nightstand, and waved it under his nose. "Frangelico?" He made a face.

"Fuck." Emma clutched her head. No wonder she felt like sweet-pickled death. "And why am I wearing your jacket?"

"After the second vodka, you rather took a liking to it. And who am I to deny a lady?" He winked at her, and she felt she needed to ask.

"We didn't…I mean… you and I didn't…"

"We drank. We sang. Drunk Emma has an apparent affection for Motown. We may have danced a little on my coffee table. I'm pretty sure you broke it. I'll be expecting restitution for that." Emma risked more pain to send Killian a level look. He knew that wasn't what she wanted to know. He, in turn, arranged his features until he was the picture of innocence.

"I, as you know, Swan, am first and foremost, a gentleman." He placed a hand on his chest in apparent sincerity. "There was no removal of clothing, barring the aforementioned jacket, and all inappropriate touching could be construed as modern dance moves, which was, I think, by design." Emma rolled her eyes.

"Why am I here?"

"Mighty big question, Swan." He took a breath. "You see, for millennia, mankind have pondered the purpose of humanity, the meaning of life, if you will. Some say that humans are-" She couldn't hold it in any longer. She reached across and slapped him upside the head.

"Why. Am. I. _Here_?" He pouted. Actually pouted. And then he relented.

"Out of the two of us, I am the only one who keeps alcohol in the house." That made sense. And then she was hit with a wave of nausea.

"I think I'm going to be sick." Emma pulled the covers back, and put both feet on the floor. She was still wearing her boots. _Weird._

"Bathroom's through that door." Killian gestured to the far wall. Emma bolted for it. "Try to make the loo this time!" He called after her.

* * *

><p>After she was done worshipping at the porcelain throne, <em>fucking Frangelico, <em>Emma took the opportunity to clean up a little. One glance in the mirror confirmed her suspicions. Her hair was a snarled mess, her eyes were bloodshot, barely visible as they were under the smudged mascara. There were creases on her face from the pillow still.

She looked like hell.

Whilst Killian managed to pull up that morning a little puffy-eyed, with adorably askew bed hair, she managed to look like she'd gone twelve rounds with an angry bear, and lost.

"Fuck."

She salvaged the situation as best she could with what little was available to her. Killian's bathroom was practically austere, and there was a significant dearth of women's haircare products and cosmetics. That was probably a relief, all things considered. She still stole some of his toothpaste. He wouldn't mind. When things were as good as they were going to get, she crept back into the bedroom. Killian was gone, but the tell-tale aroma of half-burnt bacon was wafting through the open doorway.

Gingerly, she stepped out into what appeared to be the kitchen. Killian was oblivious to her entry, his back to her, busy tending to whatever he had burning away in a skillet on the stove-top, whistling something hearty and most probably Irish. Emma took the opportunity to snoop. Apart from the night before, which was coming back to her slowly in bits and pieces, she'd never been in Killian's home before. Not in five years. The curiosity was almost overwhelming.

Emma would have expected a bit more of a bachelor pad. All chrome and black leather. It certainly would fit her image of the guy. But it was actually kind of… homey. The signature bay window marked it as a triple-decker, the view, as the third floor.

Coming up the stairs the previous night must have been an adventure.

The floorboards were new, shiny. The furniture was wooden, for the most part, the couch red worn leather, which looked recently slept on. _That answered that question._ Seaside landscapes dotted the walls. There were books everywhere. In bookcases. On counters. On the floor next to the coffee table, which yes, only had two legs now. There was also a random scattering of glasses, bottles and Motown records. They really had made a night of it.

It was then that Killian noticed her entrance.

"Congratulations," he gestured to her bathroom efforts. "You look a little less like boiled shite." Emma gave him the finger, and stepped forward to see what he was cooking.

She grimaced when she saw the abundance of greasy confections.

"I promise, the grease will help. You'll feel like a whole new you." He said that last part as if he was channeling Oprah. It didn't help her headache. Emma sat down at the wooden dining table, where some books and a laptop had been shoved aside, two places already set.

"I just want to feel like the old me," Emma grumbled, folding her arms on the table, and burying her head in them. She was still wearing Killian's jacket, she realized, but the leather was soft against her cheek, so she made no effort to remove it.

"That's the spirit!" Killian said, dropping another glass of water and a few Tylenol on the table beside her.

"You're awfully chipper for someone who matched me shot for shot." Emma accused, downing the water and pills in one swift motion.

"Aye," said Killian, returned to his skillet, "I do seem to be, don't I?" He grinned again, stupidly.

"Please tell me it isn't something I said under the influence?" Emma groaned. "That stuff isn't admissible in court, you know."

"Au contraire. You were a paragon of discretion." He looked almost annoyed at the fact. "Your affection for my jacket, notwithstanding." He winked.

"It is a nice jacket," Emma quietly agreed, letting her head rest on her sleeve again.

"And it suits you well. But I'm getting it back." He affixed her with a stern expression.

"We'll see." Emma smiled at last, hugging it tighter around her.

Killian merely scowled, and set about transferring food onto plates, before presenting one in front of Emma with a flourish. Bacon, eggs, sausage, hash browns. Everything treading that fine line between crispy and burnt, just the way she liked it.

"You're amazing," Emma breathed, raising her knife and fork.

"I'm sorry, my phone wasn't recording, do you want to repeat that for those playing at home?" Killian asked, taking a seat opposite. Emma just smiled at him, her mouth full of hash brown.

"Gorgeous," he replied, before shovelling in a forkful of sausage.

* * *

><p>"You can't keep it."<p>

"But you said it suited me."

"Be that as it may, _no_."

Killian had driven her home, because he was quote, unquote, a "gentleman". But now the time had come to take off the jacket, and Emma was strangely reticent. She tried pouting. Looking at him underneath her (newly re-mascara-ed) eyelashes.

"You can't use your feminine wiles on me, Swan. I've seen you conduct a million Honeytraps. I'm wise to all your tricks."

"Oh really?" Emma placed a precarious hand on his knee, and leaned forward, eyes glued to his lips. She licked her own. She began to slide her hand further up his leg.

"I didn't say the tricks weren't extremely fucking hot." He said, his voice gravelly, halting the advance of her hand with his own. She flicked her eyes from his lips back to his eyes. They were growing darker by the second, clouded by a tumult of lust. Men were so easy.

"Are you sure I can't keep it?" she asked sweetly, her hand beginning to massage his thigh through his jeans. Killian swallowed hard, moving perceptively closer with each shallow breath.

Which was when the sudden sound of a motorcycle engine turning over nearby startled them both out of their little lust haze. Emma turned to see the source of the commotion. It was a tiny, retro looking thing, piloted by a guy with honest-to-goodness aviator goggles sitting on his white helmet, a total hipster.

"Is that?" She tugged on Killian's sleeve.

"August W. Booth." Killian said it like a swear word, and started scrambling to undo his seatbelt. With all the confirmation she needed, Emma bailed from the car, and took off running. There was a stop sign at the end of the block. If she could get to him before he made it through…

He was still idling at the cross-roads, waiting for a break in traffic, when Emma jumped him. The bike skidded sideways onto the sidewalk, where it fell down against some trash cans. Emma and August both landed hard on the asphalt, but half his luck, August had a helmet. He recovered quicker than Emma did.

"So you're the girlfriend, huh? You're prettier, close up." The implications were temporarily lost on Emma, as she struggled to her feet.

"Who are you?" She blurted out, trying to pull her hair from her eyes. And that's when August W. Booth grabbed her wrist, and pulled her out of the way of an oncoming car.

* * *

><p>"I'm the guy who just saved your life." He winked, brushing the dust off his peacoat. Emma didn't say anything, still in shock. But of course he had a peacoat.<p>

"You could say thank you, you know."

"Thank you." Emma said suddenly. Apparently satisfied, he turned towards his motorcycle, but Emma's hand shot out and grabbed a hold of his arm.

"Who are you?"

"I'm August Booth. And you're Emma Swan. But we both already knew that, right?" There wasn't anything threatening in his tone. He was matter-of-fact. And yes, amused.

"Why are you following Killian?"

"You haven't figured that out yet?"

"Don't make me cuff you."

"It's a bit early for a citizen's arrest, Emma. And I haven't done anything illegal." Yet.

"I'm pretty sure stalking is illegal."

"I'll have to read up," he shrugged. "But your boyfriend is about to come around that corner, and I really must be going."

"Give me something." Emma was practically pleading at this point.

"I represent an interested party. But I don't mean any harm. Obviously." He gestured towards the road. "And it was lovely, meeting you at last." He looked meaningfully at Emma's hand on his arm, and without much thought, she let go.

He hurried over to his bike, and revved the engine. It was still somewhat upright, so apparently the engine hadn't flooded. A pity. And with a few extra revs, he took off, just as Killian did indeed round the corner.

"Emma?" Killian was breathing hard beside her. "He got away?"

"Kind of."

"Kind of?"

"He… saved me."

"Saved you?" He grabbed an elbow to turn her towards him, so that he could get a good look at her. He took in the grazed knees and palms, the dazed expression. "Emma?"

"I was about to be pancaked by a car, and he…saved me." Without giving it much thought, Killian opened his arms and enveloped her in a bone-crushing hug.

"I'm fine," she protested, although it felt kind of nice anyway. Safe.

"Oh no, this isn't for you," he laughed, pulling apart slightly. "This is all for me."

"You'd care if I got pancaked by a car?" Emma asked, half joking to diffuse the tension.

"Swan," he said, turning those steely blue eyes to hers, "I would care if you got pancaked by a car."

"Good." She smiled, giving him one last squeeze before stepping apart.

"He knew who I was."

"August?"

"Yeah. He knew my name. Knew that we were apparently dating. Intimated that he'd seen me before, from afar. Said that he "represented an interested party", but he didn't mean any harm. I'm sorry I couldn't stop him, I was just-"

"It's okay." He waved off the beginnings of her apology. "I'm just glad to have you still in three dimensions."

"He's been watching me too." Killian let out a loud sigh.

"Looks like."

"Do you think he's dangerous? I mean, I have Henry…"

"Do you think he's dangerous?" Killian wondered.

"He didn't seem to be, but I have no idea who "interested parties" might be. You haven't pissed off any mob bosses lately, have you? Taken down a kid of anyone particularly powerful? Slept with anyone's wife?" His eyes widened slightly at that last bit. _Bingo._

"You _have _slept with someone's wife?"

There was no reason why Emma should feel a sudden stab of pain in her chest. But she felt it bloom all the same.

Killian saw the realization rising in her eyes.

"No! No, Emma!" He grabbed both of her elbows to hold her in place, eyes intent on hers. "It's not what you think."

"What do I think?" She laughed, but it didn't come out right. Kind of hard.

He opened his mouth to say something, scowled at the public venue, and led Emma into an open alleyway. He took a calming breath.

"A long time ago," he began.

"Yeah?" Emma's tone wasn't patient.

"A long time ago, I fell in love with a woman. But she was already married." He had the good grace to look guilty.

"She was going to leave him, for me." He raked a shaky hand through his hair.

"She had a young son. We planned to take the boy, and run away together." His accent had become noticeably broader with each recollection.

"But her husband found out, and I lost my job, amongst… other things."

"That's how you got kicked out of the Navy?" Emma's voice was small.

"Aye," he said, bitterly. "That's how I got kicked out of the Navy."

"Oh. And you think August is working for him? Or…" she didn't want to say it. "_Her_?"

"It's a possibility. The husband… he was… _is… _I suppose, an important kind of guy. He'd have the money for an untraceable Private Investigator."

"Or her?"

"It was a long time ago, Emma." He didn't seem willing to entertain the thought. Didn't want to let even a flicker of hope take hold. Emma could relate.

"The first cut always stings the most." Emma shrugged.

"Aye," he breathed, "That it does."

Killian turned away, sucking in a deep breath of city air, and began heading back towards Emma's apartment. Emma followed a few paces behind, to give him his space. And that was when she noticed something on the sidewalk, glinting in the sun. It was right by the trash cans that had been jostled by August's motorcycle, but they hadn't tipped over, so they probably were not the source. Whatever it was, it could have come off the bike. Emma waited until Killian turned the corner before reaching down to retrieve it.

It was a white, rectangular piece of plastic, shiny as she rotated it in her hands. A room key.

_Gotcha._

She hurried to catch up to Killian, but when he gave her that familiar half-smile at her reappearance, she found she couldn't find the words. Discreetly, she tucked the keycard into her jeans pocket, and tightened his jacket around her. She'd tell him. But not yet. First she had to know.

"You know what, Swan?" Killian paused, as they reached where his car was still parked, both doors still open. Security conscious, alright. He half climbed into the driver's side, but let his eyes rake over her one last time. "Keep the jacket. But you _are _paying me back for the coffee table."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: I apologise, my Lieblings, for falling off the face of the Earth there for a bit. **

**Here follows a lively, longwinded excuse: I was on a trip and I didn't take my laptop. A very important trip. I flew across the country to see my favourite band twice in two days. Yes, very important. I wrote half of this on my phone and lemme tell you, that device is unwieldy as all get out. Progress was slow. Made slower by demanding little cousins who kept getting me to make Lego Star Wars ships for them. Apparently I have found my true calling, and it isn't fanfiction writing. It's being my little cousins' Lego Bitch. And THEN they ensickened me with their little kid plague germs, and I lost the will to do anything but sleep and mainline cold medicine.  
><strong>

**Long story short, me and my laptop and working fanfic servers have been gloriously reunited, and we are back on schedule.  
><strong>

**If you forgot what just happened... Killian went to drop Emma off the morning after their second somewhat-date. They saw August. Emma pursued. Emma caught. Emma narrowly avoided being pancaked by a random motorist, saved by the ever-mysterious August. She let him get away, before Killian could catch up with them, but he left a little something behind. **

**And now on with the show...**

* * *

><p>"Isn't that Killian's jacket?" He asked, as Emma climbed into the passenger side of his truck. <em>Of course those were his first words<em>.

Emma hadn't waited around much longer after Killian's Dodge Charger had peeled out of the parking lot to make her move. She had a lead on August, but there was no telling how long he'd stick around once he'd figured out his room key was missing. Time was not on her side. She'd already let him get away from her once. She wasn't going to let him get away a second time.

She pulled out her phone, scrolling through motel listings. Whoever was paying August, _assuming someone was paying him_, they had skimped out. The logo on the keycard traced back to a motel in Dorchester, only a slight cut above the one Emma had lived in after she'd gotten out of prison. That made things considerably easier. Desk clerks at shady motels could usually be counted on to be a little more talkative than their better-paid contemporaries at the Hilton's of the world, given the right motivation. She still needed back up, though. And that's where David came in.

"Yes." Emma went for the Band-Aid approach. "Yes it is."

"Huh." He couldn't quite hide the disapproving look on his handsome face. Yeah. David was handsome. Nice, too. He was happily married, and he was a good boss. A loyal friend. It was almost enough to make you sick. But it also made him unable to say no when Emma called him at 10 on a Saturday morning, and asked him to pick her up outside her building in exactly twenty minutes.

"So when Mary Margaret said the two of you were seeing each other," he began, trying to hide his discomfort, folding his arms over his chest in a very paternal way, "I guess you're really _seeing _each other."

So David thought she was sleeping with him. _Getting off behind their backs_, was how Killian had so colorfully phrased it. He was bound to assume that at some point during the ruse, but Emma felt the heat rise in her cheeks anyway.

She hadn't slept with him. She'd just spent the night. In his bed. He'd made her breakfast. He'd driven her home. There could have been a moment, in the car. Perhaps. Possibly. A sliver of a moment. And here she was, wearing his favorite jacket, the one that still smelled like him.

Yeah, okay. She would have drawn the same conclusion, given the same evidence at hand. That didn't mean she had to like it.

"We aren't talking about this." David shot her a look. An _I know what you are doing _kind of look. He was terrifyingly good at them. Emma pretended he wasn't. "I didn't rescue you from your Saturday morning plans scouring your local delicatessen for organic hummus, to talk about Killian Jones." David rolled his eyes at his hummus thing, but he could roll his eyes all he liked. Emma had seen the inside of his refrigerator. She knew better.

"Okay, so tell me, why did I abandon my weekend plans with my wife, exactly? You don't have any outstanding skips, that I know of."

"I'm going to search someone's motel room, and I need you to be my back-up."

"Why are you breaking into someone's motel room?" David was too smart for his own good sometimes.

"I'm not. I have a key." She pulled it out of her jacket pocket and waved it in front of him. David looked unconvinced.

"Doesn't Killian usually play the Ned to your Nancy?" That was a bit of an outdated reference. _Who even read Nancy Drew anymore?_

"Usually," Emma agreed. "But you can't tell Killian about this. It's..." She floundered for an excuse,"_personal._"

_"Emma," _the tone was 100% disapproving Dad.

"I know I'm being super vague, but I need your help, and you can't ask any more questions, and you _definitely_ can't tell Killian." David wasn't like his wife. He could keep a secret. Did keep secrets. Emma's secrets. Had kept them before. It didn't come naturally to him, but nor did betrayal.

She could have told him about her little arrangement with Killian. She'd considered it. He would have kept it quiet, even from Mary Margaret. He would have hated that, but he would have done it, if she'd asked. But deep down, Emma suspected he wouldn't really get it, the why of it. Why she felt the compulsion to lie.

He'd never been the subject of idle gossip, and upturned noses.

He'd never had a group of people suddenly stop speaking when he walked into a room, their eyes filling with faux pity at the very sight of him.

He'd never had someone crush his heart so completely, that he wasn't even sure if he would survive it.

He hadn't felt a small, involuntary twinge of pain every time he looked into his son's eyes, always seeing the eyes of the person who had so betrayed him.

He hadn't felt the air rush from lungs when he'd literally run into that same person on the street, nine years later, arm in arm with a gorgeous, gazelle-like woman who ran marathons, and drank soy lattes, and wore pashmina scarves, and had never spent a single day in prison.

He hadn't then had to give this person occasional custody of his son, the one thing he cared about in his whole damn life more than this one stupid guy, who was different now, but still kind of the same, and hope against hope that he wouldn't break his son's heart too.

He hadn't then had to stand idly by, perma-grin affixed, as he made promises to someone else. Promises he had once made to her.

"One answer to one question. You owe me that." His attempt at bargaining shook Emma from her pity spiral.

His expression was almost embarrassingly earnest. The guy seriously should have been selling insurance on the television. There was nothing about that chiseled, All-American face that didn't scream _I'm a decent, trustworthy guy who probably played a little football in High School and dated your sister._ In days past, Emma would have found that very quality cause for alarm. But she knew better now.

"Fine," she sighed. She was powerless in the face of all that _decency. "_One question."

"This person, whose room we are searching. Are they dangerous?" Emma considered this for a moment. She thought of August, pulling her out of the way of the station wagon that could have crushed her.

"I don't think so." And then she thought about how August had been following her. For weeks. Had probably been following Henry as well. "But I need to make sure."

"Okay then." Emma looked over at him, to check she'd heard right.

"Okay? Really?"

"Did you want me to say no?" He raised an eyebrow. _Maybe.  
><em>

"Thank you!" If she'd been anyone else, she would have gone in for the hug. She settled for looking suitably grateful.

"Yeah, yeah," he waved away the gratitude. "So where are we going?"

* * *

><p>August Booth's motel matched the Yelp reviews Emma had found that cheerfully described it as "cheap. no ice machine." and "wallpaper will make you want to kill yourself". It was all of that and more, a grubby little place set next to a strip mall just off Dorchester Avenue. The fact they even <em>had <em>keycards was surprising. But according to the faded sign out front, they did have HBO.

Emma made David do a loop of the parking lot to look for signs of August's motorbike, but the surrounding area seemed blessedly clear of retro motorcycles. They parked a block away. If August had been following Killian as closely as he seemed, he would know David's truck by sight. There was no need to tip him off about their little fishing expedition prior to the fact.

Emma took one look at David, his plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows, arms crossed, wearing a no nonsense expression, and opted to leave him lingering outside by the vending machine while she had a cursory glance at the reception. Whatever Cop Face was, David had it. Probably because, once upon a time, he had been. A cop, that is. Or a Sheriff's Deputy, anyway, for a while. Maybe perfecting your Cop Face was part of the recruitment process. Emma didn't know, but it was useful sometimes, when you needed a little bit of authority. A blunt instrument. But some things required a little more finesse. That was Emma's territory.

The guy sitting behind the plexiglass window was probably mid-forties, balding, and wearing a bowling shirt. He was also asleep, his face resting on the magazine which lay on his desk, which he'd evidently not quite managed to finish. Excellent. He'd be disoriented. Unfocused. _Malleable_. Emma rapped her knuckles on the plexiglass. The man shifted a little, but didn't wake. She put a little more force into her knock. His head popped up from the desk in a flash, the magazine still stuck to his face, hanging for a moment until gravity kicked in. Emma didn't catch the name of the publication, but there was a blonde model in a swimsuit on the front cover. _Her course was set_. His chest unobscured at last, a nametag was visible. Chip. When he shook off that last bit of sleep and finally clapped eyes on Emma, giving her a wide, salacious grin, Emma decided that Chip was a nickname. The alternative, that his moniker matched the condition of one of his front teeth, was too much of a coincidence. Had to be.

"Checking in?" He asked brightly, smoothing back what little hair he had left with a sweaty palm.

"Actually no." Emma put a little extra breathiness into her words. "I'm looking for someone who is staying here?"

"We don't actually..." he trailed off when Emma began to pout. "Who are you looking for?"

"My boyfriend. Well... ex-boyfriend." He visibly brightened at her amendment. "Guy with the stupid skinny jeans and the retro motorcycle? Probably didn't give a real name, because he thinks he's James Bond?"

"Oh, you mean, Mr Smith from 9A?" _Bingo._

_"_That sounds like him. Has he been around today at all?"

"I saw him leave sometime this morning on his bike, but I couldn't tell you what way he went."

"Shoot." Emma felt like this character was the kind of girl who would say that. Naive. Innocent. Unthreatening. Most of all that. "I was hoping to find him here. He still has a box of my stuff he never gave back."

"Oh." Chip rearranged his features in what he hoped was a sympathetic expression. "What a dick."

"I guess I'll try again later," she sighed, before fixing Chip with a conspiratorial smile. "You wouldn't be able to keep this between us, would you? If he finds out I'm looking for him, I'm worried he'll take off and I'll _never_ get my stuff back."

"It'll be our little secret," he smiled, tapping his nose.

"Thanks, Chip. I'll see you later." She left the prospect of a second meeting dangling.

"And I'll be seeing you!" he called after her, as she walked back outside.

* * *

><p>"Any luck?" He asked, pulling himself up from where he had slumped against the wall.<p>

"Who needs luck? He's staying in 9A. Upstairs or downstairs?"

"A's are top floor." David was such a good reconnaissance man. Some people would have stopped for soda. Not David.

"Stairwell?"

"That door on the left." He said, pointing to what Emma would have originally thought to be the door of a janitor's closet. Chipped blue paint. No signage.

"Cheery."

"You haven't seen the stairwell yet." He was right about that too. The stairwell was dimly lit with a flickering fluorescent light, which tinged everything a sickly green, and Emma had flashbacks to institutional living. _They had really skimped out._

They paused at the door to 9A.

"No use in knocking. He's not here. And even if he was, to knock would be to forewarn him." David mused. Emma silently agreed, placing the keycard in the slot. Both Emma and David held a breath. It turned green. _Hallelujah_. Emma would never have to talk to Chip again.

August wasn't in. The room set the standard for the rest of the establishment. Clashing floral bedspread and wallpaper. An overpowering blast of bleach emanating from the bathroom. Furniture that had been thrown up from the seventies. Technically clean. Technically awful.

Emma went to work, scouring for personal items. She waved David into the bathroom, ignoring the jerk of his chin which said he'd rather guard the door. August's motorcycle was loud. Emma could attest. If he was approaching, they'd know about it. In the meantime, they'd be out of here quicker if they both looked.

"And what exactly am I looking for?" he asked, from the bathroom.

"Anything that says who he is, what he's doing, who he's working for, or where he has been."

"Well, that narrows it down," David muttered, but Emma still heard him.

"You _know_ this is more fun than your planned expedition to Whole Foods." Emma teased, opening the closet.

A duffel bag. Not nothing. August W. Booth had a lot of skinny jeans. That much was apparent from a quick combing-through of his belongings. But there wasn't much else to find but dirty laundry.

"Uh, Emma?" David called. Emma paused in her rifling, and half ran into the bathroom.

"Find anything?" She asked, perhaps a little too eagerly. David was knelt on the black and white tiled floor, where he had evidently been scouring through the trash can.

"Care to tell me what the hell is going on?" He asked, holding out a crumpled photograph. It was Killian, but younger than she'd ever seen him. Barely scraping twenty, if she had to guess. Dressed immaculately in a navy uniform. Smiling. The same smile as always. Two parts charm to one part danger. No scar on his right cheek. Emma reached for it, but David was too fast. He pulled it behind his back, and rose to his full height, his cold blue eyes fixed on Emma's.

"What. Is. Going. On?"

"We really don't have time for this." Emma tried to dodge behind him, but he moved to intercept her.

"No, we don't. So you'd better make it fast." He crossed his arms again, in a way that Emma knew he meant it. She sighed. He'd come this far on just the one question, but she guessed she hadn't really expected him to sit idly by for long. He was involved now.

"This guy is stalking Killian. And me. Sometimes. I'm trying to work out why."

"Stalking Killian?" He had the photograph in his hand, and still the idea seemed to puzzle him.

"We think someone is paying him to. Maybe an old flame. Maybe her... husband." David swore under his breath.

"So why isn't he here, if you both know about this?"

"I didn't tell him I was coming." That look was back. That fatherly fucking look. "I found the key, and I just wanted to... I needed to..."

"You wanted to know if it was her," he finished. Emma opened her mouth to refute this, but nothing came out. She tried again.

"No, I had to see if..." She wasn't sure what she was going to say. That was it exactly.

She had wanted to know if Killian's ex was trying to find him again. Absolutely. And she wanted to know before Killian did. So she could... prepare herself. But prepare herself for what exactly? She and Killian weren't actually together. If he re-connected with an ex-girlfriend, it was none of her business. Even if he'd brushed off the idea that it could have been her, that was the theory which Emma had clung to. But why? Just as likely was a disgruntled skip, an old acquaintance with a grudge, or the husband of the woman. Far more dangerous prospects, too. So why did she find her first theory so confronting?

"You're scared." David interrupted, reading her face carefully. Emma looked up at him in confusion.

"What?"

"You're actually scared of losing him." He said this as if it was a revelation, one he'd never considered.

"No," said Emma hotly. "That's not... We're not..." She brushed away the tears that were beginning to spill down her cheeks. When had _those _appeared?

"We've got to hurry," she said suddenly, grabbing the photograph from David's unsuspecting hands. "He could be back any minute." She hurried back into the main room, stuffing the photograph inside her jacket pocket. The duffel bag was still half hanging out of the closet, and she rushed to set it to rights. She placed it back where she found it, skinny jeans folded neatly as before, and resumed her search. All of the drawers were empty, except for Gideon's Bible. Nothing under the bed. Nor behind the radiator. That left only one place. The usual place.

An eight year old Emma Swan had once kept a journal, written in the back of an old exercise book. It contained detailed descriptions of what her real parents might be like, and unflattering caricatures of her latest foster family. Every night before bed, she'd carefully tucked it under her mattress, secure in the knowledge that no one would look for it there. Only she would know. Until her twelve year old foster brother, the one that beheaded all of the second-hand Barbies she'd been given by her foster parents, had found it, and began reading it aloud one night at family dinner, right before dessert. The resulting mayhem had landed Emma back in a group home a week later, having learned a valuable life lesson.

Never keep anything under the mattress.

No one had ever taught August W. Booth this lesson. Maybe he didn't have any siblings. Maybe he assumed housekeeping would be too lax to notice. In any case, when Emma wedged her hand between the mattress and the bed frame, she hit paydirt.

A disposable cell phone.

She scrawled through the call history. There was only one number listed, in the outgoing call log. Emma pulled out her own phone and saved it, before putting it back where she found it. David came out of the bathroom then, shaking his head. She gave the room a last once-over, before declaring it as hideous as it had been when they first entered, and then they made a break for it.

It wasn't until they were back in the truck that anyone spoke.

"You won't tell him, right?" Emma implored him.

"No," David agreed, turning the engine over. "But maybe you should."

Emma felt for the crumpled photograph in her pocket, tracing the edges with her fingertips. Yeah. She should tell him. But which part?


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Thank you, lovely readers, for sitting though an entire chapter without Killian Jones, for the sake of plot. Did you miss him? I know I did.  
><strong>

"You'll never guess what I found outside the door of my apartment this morning." These were Killian's first words of greeting, as he slipped into their shared office on Monday morning. He took a seat on the edge of Emma's desk, moving a framed picture of Henry out of the way to make room for himself. He could never just sit in a chair, like a normal person.

"Oh?" answered Emma, not looking up from her laptop.

"Feign disinterest all you like, darling." He said, closing her laptop lid so they were face to face. "The old crone downstairs has your Bug written on her register of unfamiliar vehicles parked on our street."

"She keeps a register?"

"Oh yes. Neighborhood Watch has nothing on this woman." Emma would have to remember that.

"Well, would anyone else be leaving you a coffee table?" She quirked an eyebrow. She tried to open the laptop again, but his hand stayed firm, weighing it down.

"I'm more intrigued by the idea that you delivered it yourself. I know how you got into the locked front door, but however did you get it up two flights of stairs?" Emma shrugged.

"Henry helped."

"The lad helped?" There was something fond behind his smile when he said this, underneath his surprise. Something that tugged at Emma, in ways she couldn't name.

"And _you'll_ never guess who I bought it from."

"Who?"

"Think, Jones, how many antique shop owners have we taken down?" It look him a minute. But eventually awareness crept into his eyes, his lips turning up at the corners.

"THE FLYING MONKEY?!"

* * *

><p>It had been a long, Henry-less Sunday. David made Emma promise to try to enjoy it, to leave the August stuff for a day. So, in an attempt to keep her word, she'd visited a string of antique shops in Cambridge, searching for a suitable replacement for the coffee table she'd broken. She remembered that part now. It had definitely been her fault. Smirnoff's fault too. But mostly hers.<p>

Now that she knew what Killian's living room looked like, she knew a trip to Ikea was out of the question. Killian's furniture was all one-off, sturdy, wooden pieces, not a hint of Scandinavian pine in sight. The fact she'd even managed to break any of it in the first place was a miracle.

She'd forgotten all about the flying monkey's day job selling antiques. If memory served, his missed court appearance had been over leaving the scene of an accident, after running into a parked car with his SUV. Emma wasn't a shrink, but she thought maybe Mr Walsh Baum had some issues facing up to his mistakes.

So when she saw him standing there, the flying monkey man, behind the counter, a bored expression on his face as he flipped through some catalog or other, she debated turning around and going elsewhere. She'd been about to. And then the electronic bell on the door had given her away, and he'd looked up.

He remembered her, alright. It had been a year and a half since their last encounter, but it still took all of two seconds for all of the color to drain from his face.

"Don't freak out," Emma held up her hands, in a sign of good faith. "No handcuffs this time." A woman in the back of the store paused to give her a curious look. "I'm just looking for a coffee table."

He didn't say anything for a long time, just seemed to be weighing up the truth of her words, and swallowing back a lingering impulse to run. Eventually he gave a little cough and circled around the desk, a wry smile on his face.

"Any particular style in mind?"

In the end, he'd helped her carry it out to her car, amused by her choice of ride. The table she'd chosen barely fit in the backseat.

"What happened to the Charger?"

"Oh, you mean the one we bundled you into? It's my partner's."

"The Irish guy?"

"Yeah," Emma smiled, surprised he remembered. "Same guy the coffee table is for."

"Oh." His face fell then, and Emma wondered what she had missed.

"Oh?"

"So I guess asking you out would be out of the question, then?" Emma mind reeled, thinking back on the last twenty minutes. Had there been flirting? Was that what had been happening? She thought she'd been buying a table.

"I see from that look on your face you didn't pick up on my oh-so-subtle flirting." Subtle was right.

"Ah, not as such, no."

"Never mind, it was a stupid idea anyway." He turned to go back inside.

"It wasn't stupid," Emma admitted, halting his movements. His tendency to run from his problems notwithstanding, he didn't seem to be a bad guy. "I just..."

"Not available. Got it." He gave a wan smile. "He's a lucky man." Emma didn't correct him. "Would have made for a hell of a "How Did You Meet?" story though, right?" He grinned, and Emma grinned back.

"Nice meeting you, Emma. Properly."

"Likewise."

She drove home, ignoring the parts of her that were warring over her ridiculous excuse for a love life. Flying Monkeys. Fake Boyfriends. Some people had cats. Maybe cats would be less trouble.

By the time Henry got home, she practically pounced on him as he came in the door. He, of course, was very much down for a clandestine delivery mission under cover of darkness. He'd even given it a codename. Operation Stingray. The red bow on top had been his idea. They'd stopped at a gas station for it, on the way.

* * *

><p>There were no words to truly capture the look of glee on Killian's face. He looked like all his Christmases had come at once.<p>

"The very same," Emma smirked.

"This is amazing!" He stood up and walked over to Emma's chair, pulling her out of it, and twirling her on the spot. He was grinning like an idiot.

"There's more." She warned, returning his grin.

"How could there be more? Is he married to the Wicked Witch of the West?"

"It's Irish. Like you." He dropped her hands, his grin fading whilst his eyes seemed to get larger, bluer.

"19th century, so old. Like you." Killian scoffed. He was 33. A whole five years older than Emma. Which she nevertheless always seemed to bring up, whenever she managed to chase someone down before he did.

"Aaand," she declared with a flourish, "It can withstand two people dancing on it at the same time. Henry and I might have road tested." She smiled proudly.

"You're a bloody marvel, Emma," Killian breathed.

And then he reached up to cradle her face in his hands, and kissed her.

It was slow, like the first. Sweet. Tentative. As if Emma was going to push him away at any moment. When she didn't, he took a step forward, some of that usual confidence flooding back in. With a sweep of his tongue, he deepened the kiss, and Emma let him, her hands gliding over his arms.

Which was precisely the moment Mary Margaret decided to enter their office without knocking, holding a coffee pot.

"There's fresh coff... oh." Her chipper tone sank like a lead balloon.

Emma and Killian scrambled apart, putting as much distance between themselves in the small room as possible. It wasn't a lot. Mary Margaret was still frozen in place, looking between them.

"I'm..." Her voice had gone super squeaky in her discomfort. "I'm going to go. Yes. I'm going to do that." And then she slowly backed out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

"Convincing." Killian remarked, sliding down his section of wall. And then he threw back his head and laughed like a madman. Emma wanted to be angry. Or scared. Her usual second-guessing self. But it was too ridiculous. The whole thing. Emma fell back into her chair, and joined in Killian's laughter.

"You know, it'll be good for her to experience that from someone else's perspective." Emma mused, once she'd quietened, and the pain in her side had subsided. That set Killian off again, and he had to bury his face in his hands until he stopped.

The door opened again, and David poked his head through, as if checking everyone was still decent. His unimpressed gaze took in their flushed faces and lack of proximity, Killian's occasional involuntary chuckles.

"A word, in my office?" His voice was firm. It wasn't really a question. "Both of you." He slammed the door shut.

"Why do I feel like I've just been called up by the principal?" Emma moaned. Killian rose to his feet, and made his way back over to Emma's desk again.

"Because we're in trouble, Swan." His eyes met hers, his hands linking with her own to pull her up. "A whole load of trouble."

* * *

><p>The silence was deafening.<p>

If David's plan was to intimidate them to death, then he was already halfway there. He himself was sitting stony-faced behind his desk, looking between them. They shared a glance. If they were going to the gallows, they were going together.

Finally, he opened his mouth to speak.

"Mary Margaret is having a dinner party on Friday." He paused to clear his throat, his gruff tone taking its toll. "And you're coming. Both of you."

"Huh?" Whatever Emma had been expecting, it hadn't been that.

"I don't like it." He looked between them meaningfully. "But as my wife so kindly reminded me, I'm not in a position to cast stones."

"Pot, meet Kettle." Killian mumbled under his breath. Emma nudged him with her shoulder. He nudged her back.

"God, it really is awkward to watch," David murmured to himself. Emma flinched away from Killian suddenly, as if she'd been burned.

"What's with the dinner party?" Emma asked at last.

"Mary Margaret's step-mother is going to be in town. She's going all out, and it's going to be a disaster. And since you _both _happened to individually owe me one right now," he gave them both a level look, "I've decided to collect. You're coming, and you're going to make sure no one stabs anyone else."

"I've got Henry this weekend. I can't go to a dinner party."

"Bring him."

"To the dinner party where people try to stab other guests?"

"Not if you do a good job." David winked.

There went her escape plans.

* * *

><p>"Did he just blackmail us into being his private security?" Emma asked, once they'd barricaded themselves back in their own office, away from the prying eyes of the Nolans, and their many meaningful looks.<p>

"That is precisely what he just did, love." Killian sighed, leaning back on his chair.

"Oh good, I wouldn't have wanted to have missed anything." Killian snorted.

"What did he mean, when he said that we both owed him?" Killian asked suddenly.

"Exactly what he said, I expect," Emma brushed him off, sitting down and opening her laptop again.

"But why do _you_ owe him?" He was like a dog with a bone, and Emma needed him to shut up.

"Why do _you_?" Emma asked, a challenge rising in her voice. Killian wheeled his chair forward, until his knees bumped hers, their faces level.

"Five years ago, I told him that I would never pursue you. Romantically, or otherwise. Gave my word that I wouldn't." He scratched behind his ear. "I don't know, I think I might have fucked that one up. What do you think? And I think he might've maybe remembered."

Emma felt her gut sink to her knees.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously, did I fuck it up? Were you not here earlier when my tongue was down your throat?" She smacked his shoulder.

"Seriously, did he make you promise that?"

"Yes. Repeatedly. He really drilled it in."

"He really does think he's my father, doesn't he?" Emma asked, forlornly, slumping in her chair.

"He really, really does."

"And you agreed?" She turned to him, stabbing a finger at this chest.

"I was being a gentleman. Or... trying to be."

"Is that why..." she paused. No. She didn't want to know the answer to that.

"Is that why, what?"

"Nothing. It's not important." Killian didn't look at all convinced.

"In that case, fine, why do _you_ owe David?" Emma's blood froze. Killian caught the look. The look of a startled deer in headlights. "Anything you wish to tell me, darling?"

"That depends," Emma began. "You remember how you thought I was a marvel about twenty minutes ago?"

"Vividly." The way he said it, he made it sound obscene.

"I found where August was staying, and I brought along David, for back up."

"You what?"

"Still think I'm a marvel?"

"Why didn't you call me?" Emma closed her eyes, wondering if she had the strength to tell him. When she opened them again, his eyes were still intent on hers, but there wasn't any anger there. She bit her lip, eyes drawn to her own hands.

"Because if your ex-girlfriend really was keeping tabs on you, I didn't want you to know." Emma replied, her words spilling out in an awkward singsong. She could feel the humiliation pulsing beneath her skin, the rush of blood in her ears.

"Emma." She didn't look at him. He grabbed at the hands she had been so intent on, forcing her to look at him.

"Emma," he repeated. "Milah isn't the one following me. She couldn't be." A final pause. "She died."


	11. Chapter 11

Emma was such an idiot. A stupid, jealous idiot.

She'd let jealousy of a dead woman cloud her judgement. Jealousy of Milah, who had a name now, in her head. What had she been so afraid of? That Killian would go back to her? That they'd rekindle their affair and she'd be left in the dust? Who was she kidding? Was that really reason enough to latch on to an erroneous theory, ignoring alternate and decidedly more likely possibilities that put her and those she cared about in danger?

Yeah. She could admit it to herself. If only to herself. She had been jealous. And yeah, she did care about him. Of course she did. And look where it had gotten her. Trailing behind Killian as he navigated the streets of Mission Hill on foot, his own personal storm cloud hanging above his head. They'd been walking for blocks, and he hadn't said a word. Not a single syllable since they'd left the office, after Emma had finished detailing her and David's excursion to August's motel. He'd just stood up, mumbled something about a drink, and indicated Emma should follow him.

So she had.

He finally stopped on Tremont Street outside a cosy shop with a red awning out front, the scent of roasted coffee beans wafting out of the open windows and smacking Emma in the face.

"A coffeeshop? I thought we were having a drink?" She could use one.

"Ever think that maybe we drink too much, Swan?" he asked wearily.

_She was beginning to._

"This place will be fine," he said, pushing open the door. "The apple pie is nice, and the waitresses aren't chatty."

They snagged a booth in the back, as far as they could get from the gaggle of scruffy college kids with iBooks who'd taken over the couches. True to Killian's internal notes on the place, the waitress, a bored looking woman surely on the cusp of retirement, barely glanced at them as she took their orders. When she disappeared into the kitchen, Emma looked up at Killian expectantly, her hands clasped together on the table in front of her. If Emma thought it was story time, she was in for a rude awakening.

Killian pulled a phone out of his pocket, and placed it on the table between them. It wasn't his usual iPhone. It was a disposable phone, a burner, practically identical to August's. Or to anyone's really, who was prepared to shell out fifteen bucks at Wal-Mart.

"You have the number?" He didn't have to specify which. Emma nodded, drawing out her own phone to pull it up from her contacts list. Slowly, carefully, she entered it into the burner phone. She glanced at him before she hit the call button. He took a deep breath and nodded. "Put it on speaker."

Four rings. Four excruciating rings. And then it went to voicemail.

_"Hello, Emma."_

Emma knew the voice on the recorded message. Measured. Amused. It was the voice of one August W. Booth, or whoever the fuck he was.

_"Did you ever read the tale of Hansel and Gretel? Do they read little orphans bedtime stories, Emma? Two kids out alone in the wilderness, just trying to get home? Following a trail of bread crumbs that never went anywhere? Sound familiar?"_

And then came the beep.

"Motherfucker!" the curse burst through Emma's lips, as she grabbed the phone and threw it against the nearest wall. Because it was manufactured with all of the careful love and attention that typifies a Taiwanese sweatshop, it broke into four pieces on impact. A couple of nearby students peeked over their laptops with narrowed eyes at the commotion, Emma's outburst attracting the attention of precisely zero of the staff. She ducked her head down anyway.

"That was my phone," Killian said a little forlornly.

"Oh." Emma was hit with that very realization. "Oh. Shit. Sorry Killian." He waved away her apology.

"It had served its purpose, love," he shrugged.

"So the whole thing was a set-up." Emma had thought she had been so clever. Getting around Chip. Looking under the fucking mattress. "The keycard. The motel. The phone. He's just been fucking with us this whole time!" She was struggling to control her volume levels.

"Looks like." Killian's answer was matter-of-fact. Too matter-of-fact.

"Why don't you seem as pissed off as I am right now?"

"Do you have the picture?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"The picture of me. The one David found in the bin. Do you have it?"

"Sure," she said, rummaging in her bag for her wallet. A glimmer of the familiar boyish grin broke through when she pulled it out.

"You kept a picture of me in your wallet?"

"Shut up," Emma rolled her eyes, handing over the crumpled photo. She had tried to smooth it out as best she could, but it wouldn't ever sit pretty in an album.

He took it gently, and was shrewd in his approach. He examined the photograph carefully, front and back, before lifting it to his nose and inhaling deeply. Emma was about to make a crack about channeling Sherlock Holmes, when Killian spoke again.

"This was Milah's."

* * *

><p>"Everything August has done so far has been a trick, what makes you think this is any different?" Emma asked, piling cream onto her slice of apple pie with a spoon.<p>

"Because I gave it to her." Killian shrugged. "And it still smells like her." His eyes were a little glazed over. Emma had read that stimulating the olfactory sense was the best for triggering memory. If that were true, then she really didn't want to be in Killian's head right now. She watched him tip the container of sugar sachets out on the table next to his untouched slice of apple pie.

"She was my first love, you know. _The first cut always stings the most_." He wasn't looking at Emma, even as he quoted her earlier words, his attention solely focused on stacking the sugar sachets into size order. "It shouldn't have happened at all. The Navy isn't really big on fraternization, as a rule. She was married. She had a child. She was beautiful. I was just a fucked up lad, fresh off the plane, carrying nothing but dual citizenship papers, who thought working for Uncle Sam might help him get a foothold. But she wanted _me_." His eyes flickered up to Emma's for a second.

She knew that feeling. It was the same one she'd felt when she tried to steal a car that had already been stolen, by the thief sleeping in the backseat. He'd been older. And charming, in his own way. He didn't think she was annoying, or not worth the trouble. He knew how to steal without looking guilty. He knew just what to say when he was pulled over by the cops. He knew how to pick locks and break into motel rooms. And he'd wanted _her. _

"We kept it up a long time. We were careful. So bloody careful." His words echoed his motions, arranging the sachets into pairs now, leaning one against another in a series of triangles, as if he was building a house of cards. "But the husband found out, eventually." He began to place a sachet between each peak, completing the first floor of his sugar house.

"His first response was to report us. The penalty for fraternization is dishonorable discharge, in case you didn't guess. He'd never liked her chasing a Navy career anyway. And he thought that if he could separate us, the affair would end." Emma got the feeling that wasn't the end of the matter. He was building the second floor of the house, but his first peak collapsed. They both held their breath, but the first floor remained steady. He extracted the collapsed sachets, and started anew.

"It didn't end, did it?" Emma realized she was still holding her spoonful of apple pie, frozen as soon as Killian had started talking. She dropped it back into the bowl, her appetite forgotten.

"No. Separating us had the curious effect of making us both realize how much we didn't want to be apart. She'd wanted to leave her husband for a long time, but she couldn't. While she was deployed, her husband was the one looking after their son. She knew if they split up, he'd get custody. He'd poison him against her. She didn't want that." He laid out the final sachet on the second floor.

"So together we hatched an ingenious plan." He practically spat the words. "And naturally enough, her husband learned of it, and paid me a little visit before we could implement it. To be honest, I don't think it was the affair he minded, so much as the plan to take the lad with us. Back to Ireland. Well, without the permission of her husband, that right there is Conspiracy to Kidnap a Minor."

"Shit."

"Precisely. He had me dead to rights, and he knew it. He was an influential man. Traded heavily in favors. He had all kinds of people in his pocket. Police. Journalists. Judges. He gave me a plane ticket to JFK, and an ultimatum. Stay with Milah, and he'd pin me for something that would land me in Federal prison for decades, or worse. Leave, and I'd be a free man."

"So you left?" _Everyone did, in the end. _Killian threw back his head and laughed. It was a terrible, unfunny laugh. A few sachets fell down from the force of it.

"May I remind you I was a headstrong young man in the grips of his first serious love affair? I tore the ticket in half right in front of his face and told him to go to hell." Emma suspected that had consequences.

"And what did he do?"

"He went home and told Milah I'd taken the ticket to New York. She, in turn, waited until her son was asleep and then cut her wrists and bled out in the bath." He smacked his palm on the table with a deafening finality, knocking over the rest of his house. Emma felt her own hand slide over his automatically, but no words came.

"And that, was the end of that."

Emma couldn't ever do that. Even if Neal was around more, a more engaged parent, she would never, _ever, _leave Henry alone like that.

"And you're sure that she... uhm...?" Emma regretted the question immediately, but Killian still caught her meaning.

"Part of me wanted for him to have killed her. So I'd have a a target, for all the rage. I investigated, of course. Independently. Thoroughly. Everyone who examined her agreed, her wounds were self-inflicted. He may well have driven her to it, but he didn't kill her." He sighed. "Not in the way that matters to prosecutors, anyway."

"And her son?" The one she'd left behind.

"Ben. Still lives with his father. He'd be maybe fifteen now."

"I couldn't do that," Emma whispered. She felt her thoughts form into words, but she couldn't stop them. Killian cocked an eyebrow. "I couldn't leave Henry like that." Killian flipped his hand over, so that he could entwine his fingers with hers.

"No, I don't think you could either, love," he said, squeezing her hand. "I loved Milah. With everything in me. But she could be selfish. She joined the Navy with a toddler at home, because she craved excitement. An escape from her loveless marriage. And for a while, that's what I was too. She wasn't perfect. She was very... flawed." He exhaled loudly, as if some of the weight of his confession had lifted from his shoulders.

Emma gently loosened her grip, bringing her hand back across the table, trying to create a little distance. Some breathing room.

"So is that who you think August is working for? The husband?" He shook his head.

"August's methods seem too convoluted for him. He used to be direct. Up front. He would tell you exactly how much you'd fucked up, and exactly what you owed him in recompense. He didn't bother with fairy tale analogies and vague fucking hipster messenger boys."

"The picture might be just something to throw you off. Like everything else. A plant. Make you think this is about..." Emma couldn't use her name. Didn't dare use her name. "When actually it's about something else entirely."

"Perhaps." Killian was back to sorting out sugar sachets. "But I'm curious as to where he found that picture."

So was she. Emma still had plenty of questions for August W. Booth.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: That last chapter was a bit heavy. See what happens when I try to write something cute and fluffy? Dear lord. Okay, here's some dinner party madness for you. Decidedly more cheery, this one. In parts. It also marks the passing of the Bechdel Test for this here fic. Knew I'd get there eventually...**

Chasing down August would have to wait, however, until after the evil stepmother was out of town.

Mary Margaret's mother had died when she was a kid. Cancer. It had been perhaps the defining moment in her young life, the one that determined the type of adult she would grow up to be. Warm. Forgiving. Eternally hopeful, and unafraid of loving with her whole heart. Just like she remembered her mother being, before all of tests, the chemo, the slow decline.

So when her father remarried a year later, to the surprise of everyone, Mary Margaret didn't take it all that well.

Regina was a shark. Which is to say, she was a lawyer. The scary kind. The kind who could reduce hardened criminals to blubbering messes after five minutes of cross-examination. No one knew exactly what the attraction was. Which is not to say that Regina wasn't a beautiful, intelligent woman, if you didn't mind no-nonsense pantsuits, blood red lipstick, and a snarky streak. But she wasn't a thing like Mary Margaret's mother. Not in the least.

As Mary Margaret told it, her father and Regina had met on a trip to Walden Pond, one of her mother's old favorite haunts. Mary Margaret had wandered away from her father's side, to feed some ducks down by the pond. And then, he wasn't there at all. A startled Regina had found her whilst on a hike, the girl sobbing all alone by the water's edge, and had taken her hand, and led her to the nearest park ranger, who'd radioed around a description of the missing child's father. He'd turned up fifteen minutes later, shaken, tears streaking down his face. He'd bundled his little girl into his arms, rocking back and forth, whispering promises into her hair. And then he'd stood up, brushed himself off, and offered a warm smile and a proffered hand to the woman who had found his little girl.

They were married a month later.

The relationship between Mary Margaret and Regina could best be described as... diplomatic. They had never been close. Hell, they openly distrusted one another. But for the sake of the man they had in common, they'd clenched their jaws and bore it.

But when he'd died a few years back, things inevitably worsened. Regina didn't temper her sarcastic barbs any longer in front of her step-daughter. Mary Margaret didn't spare her accusations. As a result, Regina's occasional visits were always wrought with tension. The kind of tension that set Mary Margaret uncharacteristically on edge days in advance, and David scrambling for friends to blackmail into keeping the peace.

* * *

><p>Only one day into Regina's visit, the negative energy was already reverberating throughout the office. Killian had deliberately waylaid Emma in the parking lot that morning, blocking her parking space with orange cones, just so he would get the first assignment of the day, staking out a restaurant in Chinatown. David had escaped an hour ago, citing an urgent meeting that wasn't in his day planner. That left Emma all alone with a highly-strung Mary Margaret, who was flicking through recipes on her iPad with perhaps a little more violence than the task really demanded, muttering darkly under her breath.<p>

"Cookie?" Emma, asked innocently, holding out an open packet of Oreos. Mary Margaret just shook her head, not looking up from the screen.

"Sugar won't solve this."

"Liar." Emma took a seat on the edge of her desk. "Sugar solves everything." Mary Margaret just sighed, and held out her palm. Emma dug out two cookies, and watched with some satisfaction as the woman abandoned her task, eyes closing in pleasure at the first bite.

"See?" Her friend just shook herself from her sugar haze, and redoubled her focus on her iPad.

"Henry's allergic to peanuts, right?" Mary Margaret looked up suddenly.

"Shellfish." Emma corrected, getting worried now. Mary Margaret had been the one to drive him to the hospital when he'd had his first allergic reaction, Emma stuck in Worcester chasing after a skip. It had been a harrowing night. It wasn't the kind of thing one just forgot. Especially not someone as infuriatingly together as her.

"Are you okay?" Emma asked, warily.

"Of course I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be okay? I'm just planning and executing a three course dinner for ten people, catering to three different food allergies, with no help, while my evil stepmother is staying in the guest room, delivering subtle criticisms of everything from the brand of soap we use, to the thread count of her sheets, to David's affection for plaid, to the reasons we haven't tried in vitro fertilization yet. Does Merlot pair with Roasted Duck?"

It was intervention time.

Emma made a grab for the iPad.

"Yes," she said, holding out of her friend's reach. "But that isn't important right now. What you need to do right now is breathe." Mary Margaret fixed her with a cold stare, but Emma didn't give up easily. She placed the iPad down, and grabbed a hold of her friend's shoulders.

"I know you mean well, Emma. But what I really need is to-" Emma didn't let her finish.

"You're going to have give yourself a panic attack unless you calm down." It wasn't an idle claim. Whilst Mary Margaret was no wilting magnolia, in the past she had been known to work herself into such a state that she'd felt unable to breath. Her symptoms almost always seemed to worsen when Regina was in town.

Eventually, Emma felt Mary Margaret's shoulders relax under her hands, and she slumped back into her desk chair.

"Better," said Emma, finally removing her hands and leaning back herself. She didn't have much experience suffering through familial obligations, but she'd had plenty dealing with assholes.

"Now may I remind you that you are an equal partner in a successful small business, a generous and awesome friend, happily married to someone you are_ still_ crazy about, owner of a very nice loft full of a ridiculous amount of cute hats, and a devoted and much-loved Aunt." She gave her friend a warm smile. "Regina may know where to land her barbs for maximum damage, but she can't change those fundamental truths, okay?" Mary Margaret nodded, but there was a sheen of incoming tears in her eyes that Emma had rather hoped to avoid.

"Good. Now eat a cookie. And if that doesn't work, there's rum in Killian's desk." Emma picked up the iPad again, flicking back to where Mary Margaret had been browsing. "And you're _not_ doing this without help. But let's not go with the Roasted Duck."

* * *

><p>"I see you thought you'd try wearing some of your own clothes for a change, darling," Killian said first when Emma swung open the door. He gestured to her fuzzy sweater and jeans combo, the jacket that she'd favored all week glaringly absent. Emma rolled her eyes and pulled him into the loft by his sleeve.<p>

David had told them both to show up early, and Killian was uncharacteristically late. Everyone else had already arrived, and Mary Margaret was holed up in the kitchen, having a silent meltdown.

"_Do not _say stuff like that in front of the kid," she whispered into his ear, as she pulled him towards the gathered guests. "And you're late." She kissed his cheek, so the others would think she was playing nice, took the bottle of wine he was holding, and pushed him towards his seat. She made no mention of the fact that he was about to be used as a cannon fodder. He'd learn soon enough.

Emma didn't stay to assess the group's reactions to Killian's overdue appearance, disappearing into the kitchen area to assess Mary Margaret's mental state. Because David and Mary Margaret were upwardly mobile young professionals, their marital home was also a very cutesy converted loft in an old warehouse building with enough exposed brick, distressed wood, wrought iron and open living space to quench all of Mary Margaret's aesthetic whims. Which was great, a lot of the time. But not if you were trying to hide from your dinner guests. Fortunately, the background drone of dinner conversation afforded some measure of privacy.

"I found a stray Irishman roaming the hallway. I let him in, I hope you don't mind." Emma announced, walking in to find Mary Margaret hadn't heard her, her head buried in the oven. "Um..." Emma put the bottle down on the bench with the others and stepped forward, voice lowering. "Are you having a Sylvia Plath moment? Because she'll be gone by Sunday." To her immense relief, her friend emerged a few seconds later, startled to see her standing there.

"Sorry, I was just checking the fan is working. Is Killian here?"

"He's here."

"Thank god, I was worried the soup would get cold. Okay," she clapped her hands together. "Starters." She motioned for Emma to grab a tray, she grabbed the other and together out to the waiting guests.

For all of their square footage, the Nolans didn't own a table that could comfortably seat ten people. So they'd improvised, pushing their regular table together with Mary Margaret's sewing desk. When you put a tablecloth over it, you couldn't much notice the slight height difference. The woman sitting at the head of the table noticed. Emma got the feeling, as she watched that cool gaze glide over her, there wasn't a lot that escaped Regina Mills's attention.

The rest of the table was made up of decidedly more friendly faces. David, Mary Margaret, Killian, Henry, obviously. Joining their little clique for the night was Ruby, _the traitor, _her boyfriend Billy, and the married couple that lived downstairs, Aurora and Phillip, taking a rare night off from minding their newborn son.

"So how's the bail bonds business?" Phillip began, immediately setting the tone towards safe and boring territory. Emma relaxed into her seat, Henry on one side, David on the other. Safe and boring were better than the alternatives with this crowd.

* * *

><p>Everything managed to be unexpectedly civilized through the first and second courses, if you counted absolute awkwardness as civilized.<p>

Ruby spent an inordinate amount of time prodding Emma for details on Killian, who was sitting right across from her, ears perked. Unfortunately for her, Henry chose to share the coffee table story, which lead, as things inevitably did when Killian decided to take control of the conversation, to The Infamous Case of the Flying Monkey, and Emma's subsequent five minutes of fame.

She took some satisfaction from wiping the smile from his face when she revealed that Flying Monkey Guy had asked her out.

David and Phillip attempted to spark a manly conversation about football, which fell flat when Billy announced he was more into cars, and Killian made a disparaging comment about Americans and their dependency on protective padding.

Regina hadn't said much, except to comment on the wine ("pedestrian"), the state of the chicken ("serviceable"), and David's predictably plaid shirt ("Do you have one for every day of the week?").

Still, they were approaching the final hurdle, and no one had tried to stab anyone else. That had been the mission brief.

Emma still cornered Mary Margaret with another pep talk in the kitchen, before they brought out the dessert, just in case.

"Say it with me," she prodded in a low tone.

"Cute husband, cute loft, cute hats," Mary Margaret rattled them off.

"Remember," said Emma, bumping her hip with hers.

And it _was_ all fine, until Aurora's first drop of wine in a year hit her bloodstream.

* * *

><p>"I mean, I just don't see how they can get away with it!" Emma had trouble keeping track of the outrages. For a slight girl, Aurora certainly contained a number of extreme prejudices. Mothers who bottle-fed. Mothers who worked. Single mothers. With every new rant that slipped off that slurred tongue, Emma felt the knife twist a little deeper. Everyone was looking uncomfortable, even Phillip, with the possible exception of Regina, who was watching proceedings with the kind of rapt attention one usually reserves for their favorite reality show.<p>

"They just shouldn't be mixing with the normal population! Who knows that they are capable of?" Who was she ranting about now? Blacks? Jews? Muslims? Oh no, convicts. Or ex-convicts, more accurately. Like the woman who'd been found out working in her local daycare. Like Emma. Maybe she could spend the rest of the evening in the bathroom. Surely Mary Margaret would understand.

"Okay, that's enough darling," said Killian, standing up and letting his dessert spoon clatter loudly in his bowl. "We get it. You hate every single person who doesn't measure up to your ridiculous standards. How about some water, now, to go with all that vitriol?"

"What are you so snippy about?" she retorted, cheeks flushing red at being reprimanded. "You put people in jail all the time!"

"You've just spent ten minutes describing his girlfriend to a T." Everyone turned to look at Regina, who'd spoken so quietly. Aurora's eyes bugged out of her head, turning towards Emma.

"What?"

"Single mother. Working mother. Convicted felon..." Regina let her words trail off.

Emma wasn't sure how Regina knew that. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

She felt everyone else's eyes land on her at once. But she wasn't looking at them. She was looking at Henry. And he was looking at her. And then he winked, and all the rest just fell away.

"What?" Aurora repeated, louder this time.

"Charming group you've assembled here, dear," said Regina, turning to Mary Margaret at last. "Did you book the clown for the big finale?" Ruby barked out a laugh, startling Billy, who was in the middle of passing his bowl over to David, causing him to knock several things over in the process.

Which was how Emma found herself wearing a glass of Mary Margaret's carefully chosen Merlot.

"Great, just great." Emma pushed her chair back and examined her sweater. Ruined. Wearing white had been a mistake. It was always a mistake. For Henry's sake, and Mary Margaret's, she bit back the words that were on the tip of her tongue, settling for dabbing uselessly at the stain with her napkin. Billy made some apologetic motions, but Emma waved him away.

"I think we have some club soda in the refrigerator," David was up before anyone else could move.

"Was it behind the hummus?" Emma asked, when he returned. He gave her a level look, and handed her the can. She patted his shoulder in apology, before bounding from her chair, in search of a laundry room and an escape from the stares.

* * *

><p>Emma found the communal laundry room for Mary Margaret and David's building in the basement, next to the boiler room. In the recent past, someone had thoughtfully decided to paint the walls a cheerful periwinkle blue, presumably so it would look a little less like a windowless dungeon. And to their credit, it kind of worked. But with the walls still slick with condensation from the bank of dryers, it did feel a lot like a sauna.<p>

It was almost a relief for her peel off her sweater, throwing it into the over-sized sink and dousing it in club soda. It fizzled a bit, but there was still a lot of red in the stain. She tried washing it out with cold water. She had just lifted it up to examine the progress when she heard heavy boots descending down the last stairwell.

"You know, David, I think your club soda idea was a bust," she declared, dropping the sweater back into the sink and turning around.

But it wasn't David.

Killian stood in the doorway, clutching two open bottles of Bud between his fingers, a sheepish expression skirting his face, the other hand scratching at the back of his neck.

"Alright, Swan?" He stepped forward. "Bloody hell, it's rather tropical in here." He undid the third button on his shirt and fanned himself with his collar, revealing a gratuitous amount of chest hair in the process. Emma pretended not to notice.

"If you're down here, who is keeping the peace up there?" Emma asked, folding her hands over her chest, well aware her camisole was more than a little on the low cut and transparent side. Killian, for all of his talk about being a gentleman, noticed, one eyebrow raising, the beginnings of a smirk tracing his lips. At least he kept his mouth shut for once.

"Henry," he shrugged, setting the beers down to pull himself up to sit on top of one of the many tumble dryers banked up against the opposite wall.

"Henry!?" Maybe it wasn't too late to stage a rescue mission.

"Never fear. That stupid twit and her dull husband left early to get back to the baby. Ruby's given up on getting details out of me and has started devouring the face of her paramour. Mary Margaret and David are pretending there is nothing more interesting in the world than chocolate mudcake, and Henry is showing Regina all of the games he has on his new phone." Because of course Neal thought it was a good idea to give a ten year old a smartphone. A ten year old who'd dropped his last phone from a fifth floor fire escape. On purpose. Last week. "I've got to hand it to the lad, Angry Birds is probably the healthiest outlet she's ever had for all of that underlying hostility. They might even be..." he looked doubtful, "bonding."

"My little charmer," Emma smiled fondly, relaxing slightly. If anyone could win over someone as cold as Regina, it was Henry. And then she looked back at Killian, who was watching her as he took a pull from one of the bottles. It was almost unnerving, his focus. "And you've, what? Just come down here to see how badly I could fuck up saving my sweater?"

"Something like that." He smiled a lopsided smile, handing her a bottle. She clinked it with his, before taking a sip.

"I thought you didn't like American beer?"

"Utter swill," he agreed, taking another sip regardless. "David's beverage selection leaves something to be desired. But one makes do." He still made a face as the aftertaste hit. Emma decided that had been enough small-talk.

"You didn't need to defend me to Aurora. I mean, it was very sweet and fake boyfriendy, but I've dealt with a lot worse." Killian merely sighed, patting the white enamel beside him. He held her beer while she pulled herself up next to him, her boots dangling off the ground. She turned to him, so he'd see she was serious. "I don't _need_ protecting."

"I know that, Swan," he said, passing her beer back. "I've _seen_ you in action, I've watched you best many a villain more fearsome than Aurora in your time." He chuckled at that image, before taking a long swig from his beer. "But that doesn't mean you should expect that I'll just stand idly by, either. I don't know if you know this, Swan, but I don't much like seeing other people tear you down. Not when you're worth so much more than that. More than them." He didn't glance at her until he'd finished speaking, but Emma saw that he meant it. There was no lie there.

Emma wasn't going to pretend she wasn't moved. Wasn't going to pretend her heart wasn't pounding painfully in her chest with something that felt a lot like affection. Like a sledgehammer smashing against the wall she'd built to keep people like him out.

She leaned into his shoulder, her free hand reaching for his own, tracing the line of his fingers. She felt him shiver slightly, at her touch.

"This doesn't feel fake," she whispered into his shoulder, although there was no reason to whisper.

"Nope." He linked his fingers with hers.

"What's that about?" she asked, glancing up at him. His eyes were so goddamned blue, it wasn't fair.

"Well," Killian leaned closer. "You could be finally ready to admit that you find me to be devilishly handsome." Emma scoffed, but she didn't move away. "Are you sure about that?" he asked, his breath brushing her temple. "That thirsty look you gave me when I showed up on your doorstep for the first date said otherwise," he grinned.

"I did not give you a thirsty look!" Emma pulled back a little.

"Oh really? Because for a moment I genuinely thought you were going to eat me alive, Swan." He twisted his tongue between his teeth in a lascivious manner. "Like I might thoroughly enjoy the process, even." She disentangled herself from him enough so that she could smack him in the shoulder.

"You're not as irresistible as you think you are, Jones."

"Yes I am, Swan," he said, recapturing her hand. "Which is why it only took," he set down his beer so that he could dramatically count out the fingers on his other hand, "A whole _one_ not-really fake date for you to break your no saliva-swapping rule." _Well, he had her there._ "Just admit it, darling, you've quite the crush on me." He looked so awfully sure of himself.

"A crush? What am I, twelve?" Killian shrugged. And then Emma thought about what he'd just said. "Hang on, they _weren't_ fake dates?"

"You think I take all of my pretend girlfriends to seafood restaurants and romantic starry vistas? Shame on you, Swan." Emma couldn't prevent the wide smile pulling at her lips.

"Killian Jones, do you have designs on me?"

"Designs? That sounds rather premeditated to me, love." Emma just shook her head mirthfully. "Plans? Likewise, a bit too calculated for my tastes. But hopes?" He glanced down at her with a soft smile. "Aye. Plenty where you're concerned."

She didn't know who moved first. It didn't matter. One second Killian Jones was looking at her like she hung the moon, the next she was drinking him in, every bit of him. The silky feel of his hair sliding through her fingers, the bitter taste of beer on his tongue, the warm grip of his hand on her hip. Her bottle of Bud, forgotten in her haste, keeled off the edge of the dryer and smashed onto the floor, but she barely noticed. Killian paused to assess the damage, and Emma took great pleasure in dragging his lips back to hers.

It could wait.

He broke away first, sucking in a lungful of air, his forehead still flush with Emma's.

"So does this mean you _do _have a crush on me, Swan?" He asked, far too shyly for a man who could kiss like that.

"What do you think?" Emma asked, grazing his nose with hers.

"Ahem," came a familiar voice from behind her.

Emma stilled, her first instinct to flee. And she would've, had Killian's hand on her hip not kept her in place. He brushed a sweaty strand of hair out of her face with the other hand, offering a reassuring smile before looking over her shoulder at the intruder.

"Mate?" He asked, his tone implying David was interrupting, as if he couldn't already tell.

"I, uh, came to drop off one of Mary Margaret's sweaters for Emma to wear. And I'm leaving it, right here, on the table," she heard his boots shuffling backwards on the concrete floor, "And now I'm going to go upstairs and pretend I never came down here." They both waited until the sound of his boots on the stairs disappeared before dropping their guard.

"Those Nolans certainly know how to hit a cue," Killian chuckled, as Emma buried herself in his chest, her cheeks aflame.

"At this rate, I'm never going to be able to look either of them in the eye ever again, am I?" she moaned.

"Not if I have anything to say about it, Swan," he grinned, tilting her chin up for another kiss.

"Easy tiger," Emma said, pausing a hair's breadth from his lips. "We have to be getting back."

"Aye, and we will," he breathed, eyes glinting mischievously. "But not just yet," he said, closing the distance between them.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Currently drowning in 90% humidity, and it isn't perhaps quite as romantic as I made it seem last week. Holy sneakers. I am not designed for this climate. In other news, my boss has landed herself in hospital, and I have inadvertently become the boss in her stead. This requires a rather large time sacrifice on my part. Time with which I would prefer to be writing, I assure you. But I left you in a good place, right? P.S. Happy End of Mid-Season Hiatus.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Are you asleep, Swan? KJ<br>**

**Yes. Yes, I am. Look at me typing and sleeping at the same time. So talented. I should be in the circus. ES**

**Aye. Stupid question. Something keeping you awake, perchance, love? KJ**

**You mean apart from my phone buzzing on the nightstand every few minutes courtesy of one incorrigible Irishman? ES**

**Anything else about this incorrigible Irishman keeping you awake? KJ**

**Incorrigible is right. ES**

**;-) Sleep well, Swan. Dream of me. KJ**

**You wish. 'Night Killian. ES**

Okay, so maybe she did have a crush.

A little flutter of _something _in the pit of her stomach with every chime of her phone in the dark.

But Emma Swan wasn't some lovesick schoolgirl. She'd never been one, and she wasn't going to start now. She wasn't going to let the thought of Killian Jones and his blue, blue eyes, languorous kisses and secret smiles keep her up nights.

Nope. No way.

And if Henry was surprised by the breakfast spread awaiting him the next morning, blueberry pancakes and cocoa with cinnamon all before 9am, he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. And if he noticed the dark circles under his mother's eyes, he was too busy trying to shovel as much pancake into his mouth as possible to say anything.

But when he opened the door to the apartment, and found a solitary red rose sitting in an empty bottle of Budweiser beside the morning paper, he couldn't quite stifle his eye roll when he came back to the table, both in hand.

"Your boyfriend left you this," he said, putting the bottle down on the table, not pausing in his demolition of the paper in search of the comics.

_Boyfriend? _Is that what he was? Two kind-of fake dates, and make out session in a laundry room and suddenly they were official? She reached out to twirl the bottle between her fingers, the significance of it not lost on her.

"Are you mad at him?" Her son's inquisitive voice cut through the internal musings.

"What? Why would you think that?"

He lowered the newspaper and rolled his eyes again, like it should be obvious. "Because he got you flowers. Dad only gets flowers for Tamara when she's mad at him. Did Killian make you mad?" His chest was puffing up, like he was getting ready to be mad on her behalf. What a kid.

Emma wasn't quite sure what it said about his upbringing that Henry associated flowers with anger. Probably nothing too flattering. She'd have to work on that. Maybe talk to Neal.

"Not everyone sends flowers to say sorry." Henry looked doubtful. "I think he was just trying to be nice. To say thank you for the table."

"Oh." A dawning realization crept across his features. "That's why it was out on the landing? Like the table?"

"Exactly." Emma leaned forward to inhale the scent, closing her eyes as she breathed it in. Gorgeous. "Want to smell?" she asked, pushing the bottle across the table towards him.

Henry snorted a no, as if the very idea offended him. "Everyone knows that flowers are for girls."

"Want to know a secret?" Emma whispered, raising an eyebrow. Henry took the bait, leaning in a little to hear her. "That's just something girls made up so that we wouldn't have to share them with boys. But actually? They're for everyone. And they smell really nice." She pushed the bottle even closer to him. Henry, unamused at being drawn in, just shook his head, and went to watch cartoons. Emma's phone buzzed on the table.

**Did you see the front page of Globe this morning, Swan? KJ**

Emma smiled at that.

**Way subtle, Casanova. ES**

**I have no idea what you mean. Marty Walsh's relapse is quite tragic. KJ**

**Thank you, Killian. ES**

**You are very welcome, love. Although I'd maybe angle for a new doorman. One without chronic fatigue syndrome. I set off the external alarm and he didn't even blink. KJ**

He wasn't a doorman so much as the guy hired to patrol the apartment complexes on their street. In the six months since he'd been hired, Emma had never seen him conscious. Henry called him Sleepy, after the dwarf. On reflection, it really wasn't a good trait in a security professional.

**Henry thought they might be apology flowers. ES**

**For which sin does he imagine I am repenting? KJ**

**None that I know of. But his own experience of flowers has apparently been mainly limited to apology flowers. ES**

**From your countless unworthy suitors, no doubt? KJ**

As_ if _Emma had given any of her old dates her home address.

**Ha. No. Apparently Neal is King of Apology Flowers with Tamara. ES**

**I see. And the lad is similarly not a romantic at heart? KJ**

**He thinks flowers are for girls. ES**

**My florist will be devastated to hear it.** **A whole lifetime's work down the drain... KJ**

**"Your" florist? You have such a need for flowers as to have a designated flower guy on standby? ES  
><strong>

**His name is Moe. And is that jealousy I detect, Swan? KJ **

Emma snorted, her fingers flying across the keyboard.

**Does that seem likely? ES**

**A man can hope. KJ**

_Definitely_ incorrigible._  
><em>

* * *

><p>Come Monday morning, Emma's customary first-thing dash to the coffee pot was interrupted when she finally paused, taking in her surroundings.<p>

She whirled around. "Did you do this?"

"Do what?" Mary Margaret asked distractedly, peering up from her monitor.

Emma held her hands out wide to take in the gleaming windows, the dusted sideboards, the highlighters meticulously arranged on Mary Margaret's desk by hue.

"Oh." She flushed, looking around, as if she hadn't noticed the unusual sheen the place had taken on until that very moment. "Yeah."

"Did you hide out here all weekend?"

"Not _all _weekend..." Mary Margaret frowned.

"Have you not heard of going to see a movie?" The frown deepened. "...marathon," Emma amended.

"I did _try _to stick it out. I really did! But having her in the loft the whole weekend..." Mary Margaret gave an involuntary shudder. "It wasn't even anything she said. It was just the idea of her in my space..." Emma thought back to the way Regina had seemed to analyze and evaluate the full sum of her life's achievements and failures to date with one unimpressed look. Yeah. No one wants that directed at them. "She seemed to really like Henry, though." Mary Margaret said, brightening. "She wanted to know if you'd mind if she took him out for ice cream the next time she's in town."

"Really?" But before Emma could ponder too much on her son's apparent universal popularity, the front door swung open again.

"Dear gods woman, what have you done?" Killian paused in the doorway to examine the scene. "It looks like an obsessive-compulsive and a spray bottle made love in here." Mary Margaret turned in her chair to give him her best unimpressed eyebrow raise, and Emma turned back to the coffee machine, hiding her smile.

"Am I the only one here who is concerned by the fact that our working environment now smells like a suspiciously clean pine forest?"

"Yes," said Mary Margaret pointedly, typing out her next sentence with a little extra authority. His cause lost, with no David around to back him up, Killian stalked off to their office.

Emma set about searching their tiny kitchenette for her favorite red mug, the one with the "Who Needs Sleep When There's Coffee?" writing on the side. It was dumb, but Henry had given it to her, so she liked it. She finally found it in the top cupboard, the one she had to really reach for. Why someone had put it there was beyond her. Unless the point had been to torture her. Actually scrap that, she knew exactly who had put it there, and why. She almost dropped it when the office phone rang, startling her over-tired nerves. She did a quick look around, to see if anyone had caught her clumsy moment, out of habit. Killian stood leaning in the doorway to their office, having apparently seen the whole thing. _Of course he had. _Emma tried to ignore his eyes on her as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

"You look tired, Swan." He took a step towards her, hands in his jean pockets, a smug smile stretching across his lips. "Trouble sleeping, perhaps?" _He was such a cocky son of a bitch.  
><em>

"Not at all," said Emma, raising her mug to her lips in defiance. Some of her gesture was probably lost in that one motion, considering the slogan branded on the side of the mug. _Goddamn irony._

Killian grinned wider, but was interrupted from his next smug remark by Mary Margaret slamming the phone down and turning to them.

"You guys like dogs, right?"

* * *

><p>"Okay, remind me, why are we looking for a skip in Yuppie Central again?" Emma asked, taking another sip from her Venti Americano, and pulling Killian out of view of a lusty-eyed pack of Real Housewives. They were in enemy territory now, and Emma did not like it.<p>

"You know the drill, darling. We go where he goes. Archie Hopper shops at Barneys. We shop at Barneys." His grimace let her know he had the same feelings about upmarket department stores that she did. They were standing in the atrium of Copley Place near the waterfall, feeling every bit of their underprivileged upbringings, ostensibly working on their plan of attack.

"And how the hell did he get a Dalmatian in here?"

Said Dalmatian, unoriginally named Pongo, was front and center of this case. Archie Hopper was a somewhat famed psychiatrist in the Boston area. He was probably writing Xanax prescriptions for half of the Financial District, at $200 an hour. But even all that money couldn't stop him having to face up to the law when he allegedly set his beloved pooch on his neighbor, with whom he was engaged in a long-standing property dispute over a fence. The guy ended up in hospital with some rather serious injuries.

Some people use knives, or guns to get back at the people they hate. Archie Hopper was accused of Using a Dog as A Deadly Weapon. It certainly was creative.

Somehow he'd managed to stop the authorities from taking Pongo away, pending the court's decision. But when it came time to face the music, he hadn't shown. And now Emma and Killian were chasing after him and his canine companion somewhere with marble floors.

"He's a therapy dog." He shrugged. "No one would be stupid enough to refuse him in a place like this, and risk being sued. Or worse, losing their commissions. All he needs is a signed letter from his psychiatrist."

"The psychiatrist has a psychiatrist?"

Killian shrugged again. "Apparently so."

"And what kind of therapy?"

"That, my dear, is confidential. But rumor has it the dog helps with his PTSD, after one of his clients attacked him in his office after he refused them a prescription. Of course, the rumor also states it wasn't a companion he was looking for so much as a 24/7 bodyguard."

_Great. _

And because Archie Hopper took his malicious pet everywhere with him, including while shopping for overpriced sweaters, it presented a real challenge on how they were going to get close enough to cuff him. Emma had seen the photos of the neighbor's face after Pongo was through with it. It wasn't pretty. She didn't want to be next on the menu.

"Any bright ideas, then? Most of mine involve a milk bone or a blowdart." Emma cursed this mall, too upmarket for a pet shop.

"Some," Killian responded vaguely, surveying the milling shoppers. "And they shan't require a blowdart. Maybe some play acting and false enthusiasm on your part." He paused in his scanning to gauge her reaction. "What do you think?"

_Hell, what did she have to lose?_

* * *

><p>Looking at some of the price tags on this stuff, Emma found herself reconsidering her choice of career. Maybe chasing down soon-to-be felons wasn't for her. Maybe psychiatry would be more up her street. She and Killian were treading the gilded aisles of Neiman Marcus, their quarry examining cufflinks a few aisles over, furry companion in tow.<p>

Emma, in turn, was playing her part, holding up an array of very, very expensive jackets up to Killian's torso, as if they were actually going to be buying them. A lanky young man in horn-rimmed glasses and Prada shoes strode towards them, his eyes practically filling with dollar signs at the sight of them. Clearly he hadn't been at this very long, they weren't wearing a stitch of designer-wear between them.

Before he could approach them, they spotted Hopper ducking into the change rooms. A confined space with only one exit. Perfect.

"Is there any way I can be of assistance today?" He looked them both up and down eagerly, but the way he lingered on Killian made Emma pretty sure she wasn't going to be his type. Emma wrapped an arm around Killian's waist in a proprietary way, speaking first.

"Oh, great! We've been invited to a wedding, and my boyfriend here," she noticed the boy's face fall slightly at that, "left all of his good jackets in LA. We were hoping we could find something suitable here, if you have any recommendations?"

Given free reign, the boy's enthusiasm returned, sizing Killian up with a look, he began picking things off racks at random, and shoving them into Emma's arms.

"Boyfriend?" Killian whispered in her ear, while the boy was distractedly trying to divest a mannequin of a suitable jacket. Emma just gave him a sideways look, before reaching her hand out automatically to accept the newest garment.

When Emma couldn't physically carry any more jackets, their plucky assistant bundled them into the changing rooms, to make their final selections.

"He's gonna cry when he realizes we aren't gonna buy anything." Emma whispered, counting the occupied stalls. Killian's eyes flashed, and he pulled a credit card from his pocket.

"Even when someone forgot to return the company card?" He asked, fanning himself with it.

The company card was reserved for essential travel and accommodation for out-of-town jobs. David rarely handed it over, and he was always grouchy after he got the bill, mumbling obscenities under his breath about 7/11 trips and raided mini bars.

"He will _murder _you." Emma fought to keep her voice low.

"You're no fun." Killian reluctantly slipped the card back into his pocket, taking the armful of jackets from her. "Now, you know what to do, Swan?"

She nodded, and pushed him into a stall, drawing the curtain between them.

"Hurry up, honey!" She called in a louder voice. "I have a mani-pedi booked for 3 o'clock!" Actually, she had to pick up Henry from school at 3 o' clock, but she thought that this woman wouldn't. This woman was dating a promising young TV executive from LA. She skied in Aspen. She had mani-pedis. She wouldn't be skulking around a department store changing room with a pair of handcuffs and a can of mace. Or so she hoped Archie Hopper would believe.

Only two other stalls apart from Killian's were currently in use. Emma pulled out her phone, and pretended to be browsing on it while she paced the corridor, playing at being the impatient girlfriend, while actually checking for the tell-tale signs of canine presence.

The one of the left was emitting far too many whining sounds to be someone squeezing into a pair of skinny jeans, and ding ding ding, they had a winner. Now, to get through the rest without getting her face bitten off.

She returned to Killian's stall, and drew back the curtain. If she'd been expecting him to be standing there in readiness, she had apparently overestimated his commitment to the cause.

"What do you think, Swan?" Emma swallowed audibly. There are jackets. And then there are _jackets_. And the one that was currently hugging Killian's frame was... She wanted to climb him like a tree. It wasn't rational, but there it was.

"I... I think that's a $3000 jacket." She replied, stumbling on her words.

"Aye, but don't I look dashing?" He asked, taking a step forward and gracing her with a wolfish grin. That was one word for it. He was too close now. Emma couldn't think properly.

"The uh... he's on the left, the second along." She barely remembered to keep her voice low.

"Your left or my left?" His quiet words were all business, but his eyes never left her lips.

"Mine."

"Ready, Swan?" She nodded automatically, handing him her bottle of mace. He placed a hand on her shoulder, meeting her eyes again. "Watch your face, darling." He turned to pull away, and Emma grabbed him by the elbow to stop him.

"Hmm?" She reached down into his jeans pocket and pulled out the credit card, while he watched with quiet fascination.

"Keep the tags on. We'll return it later," she said, her voice strangely hoarse. "And watch your own face, Jones." She gave him a quick peck on the lips, and stepped backwards to shut the curtain again.

With a few jaunty steps, Emma returned to Archie Hopper's stall, pulled out her handcuffs, and threw open the curtain.

"Archie Hopper, you've missed your court appearance, and I'm here to make sure you reschedule."

This could have been worse for Archie Hopper. He could have been caught in his tighty-whities. Instead all he had was a cashmere sweater stuck over his head. He turned stupidly at the sound of her voice, but he couldn't see her. The dog was on the floor, observing her with apparent interest, but he wasn't lunging, and that was good news. Emma patiently waited for her quarry to free himself from the sweater.

"What the hell? Who are you?"

"I'm the one that profits handsomely when idiots like you skip bail. If you'd be so kind as to come with me?" She motioned at her handcuffs, swinging from one finger.

Archie's face twisted then, into something less than pleasant. Something you'd see on the face of a guy who tried to kill his neighbor with his dog.

"Pongo!" The dog leapt to attention, eyes trained on Emma. _Oh shit. There goes the face._

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, mate," came a voice from above them. All three of them looked up to see Killian sitting on the top of the stall, mace can pointed directly at Archie. "Or I'll spray you, and your little dog too. And I'm not sure this stuff is good for dogs. But we can found out together, if you like." Archie didn't say another word.

When they all emerged from the change rooms, Emma leading Pongo, Killian leading Archie, their young assistant nearly had a conniption. He looked torn between wanting to run and tell a manager, and clearly enjoying watching Killian with his knee in Hopper's back, handcuffing his wrists together.

"Relax," Emma said, placing the credit card on the counter in front of him. "We'll take the jacket."


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Waking up to reviews is my new favourite thing. You're all made of unicorns and rainbows, and I appreciate your words of encouragement.  
><strong>

"Are you sure we should be doing this?" David asked, dropping a stack of files on Emma's desk.

"Have any better ideas?" Emma replied, barely glancing up from her laptop screen.

"We could ask him to his face?" Emma rolled her eyes at David's reluctance.

"Oh, c'mon! This is _not_ an invasion of privacy. Everything here is a matter of public record. And you know for a fact that there isn't a speck of dirt on _either_ of us he hasn't already uncovered. He knows more about my criminal record than _I_ do! This is just what we do."

"You two have a very strange relationship," David murmured, taking a seat at Killian's desk.

Emma couldn't deny that.

Today Killian was in Providence, chasing down a skip who was rumored to be hunkering down at his Aunt's house. Which meant he wasn't there to prevent Emma from scouring through his past to find the person who had brought August Booth into their lives.

Emma's contact at the second-hand book store had come through with the goods. Or some goods, at least. They managed to trace the book down to a specialty vanity press in San Diego. The same city Killian had called home before his abrupt departure to Boston five years earlier. Which meant that "interested parties" probably dated back to that part of his life. A part that Emma still wasn't all that clear on.

A call to the publisher had revealed that the order for the book had been placed six months ago, for cash, under the name of August Booth. The sole point of contact had been a PO Box in Oceanside, also rented with cash, under that name.

This had been a long time in the planning, and it hadn't been cheap.

And there was only one person Emma knew to talk to, who had known Killian in California.

* * *

><p>"Does the Captain know you're here?" William asked, as Emma took a seat at the bar beside him.<p>

A creature of habit, William Smee wasn't exactly hard to find on this day off. He could be found exactly where he spent almost all of spare hours, holding up the bar in his neighborhood dive, a charming little place that didn't quite live up to the majesty of its name, The Rose & Crown. Emma slapped a twenty down on the bar and indicated to the bartender to keep his beers coming.

"If he didn't, he will when you call him as soon as I leave, won't he?" Emma replied archly. William chuckled into his beer.

"You really are his type, aren't you?" he said, wiping froth from his beard with his sleeve.

"His type?" Emma turned to him, rising an eyebrow.

"Tenacious."

"Is that something that she was?" Emma hadn't meant to ask that, and when William's eyes met hers, she regretted it.

"Is that why you're here? To ask about _her_?" The way his eyes narrowed, Emma didn't think there had been any love lost between them.

"Not exactly." She tried to think of what she _did _want to ask.

"You know Captain is just a nickname, right?" William asked, disrupting her train of thought. "He never made the rank." Emma had wondered about that, going through his military record. Everything she'd read had indicated he'd only reached Lieutenant. "But we all thought it was only a matter of time. He was more ambitious than the rest of us. Real leadership material. Until _she _came along."

"Not a fan, huh?"

"Don't get me wrong. I _do_ think she cared about him. Maybe even as much as he cared for her. But I don't think she considered for one minute what it might cost him."

"Like his career?"

"It was more than a career to him! He didn't have a family to get back to. People waiting for him. The navy was his life."

He allowed his eyes to travel the length of her, and it felt less like he was checking her out, and more like he was wondering if she was going to be the next person to fuck up all of his friend's dreams and ambitions. No pressure or anything.

"And for you?"

He shrugged. "I liked it well enough. But I got out eventually, went to work for my cousin up here, fixing boats, doing some security work on the side. I don't worry so much about torpedoes now."

"Did you keep in touch with Killian when he left?" He rolled his eyes.

"Obviously." Emma smiled. William looked fairly harmless, with his beer gut and beanie, but there was more going on behind the surface than she'd originally thought. Exactly the kind of friend Killian would keep.

"Was there anyone in California who might wish Killian harm?"

"You mean _apart _from Robert Gold, right?"

"Robert Gold?" He looked at her like she was an idiot.

"The husband?" He said, real slow.

"_Robert Gold _was the husband? As it _State Senator Gold? _Killian slept with the wife of a _State Senator_?!" Of all of the stupid, idiotic...

"Didn't mention that part, huh?"

Emma thought back to Killian's descriptions of the husband. "Influential" he had called him. "Connected."

_No fucking kidding._

William sighed, and pushed his next beer across the bar towards her. Emma glanced back at him in surprise.

"You look like you need it more than me."

* * *

><p>When she eventually stumbled out of The Rose &amp; Crown, way past her self-imposed deadline, and more inebriated than she ought to be mid-afternoon, she sat down at a bus shelter to wait the requisite five minutes for her phone to ring. It took three.<p>

"Checking up on me, Swan?" He didn't sound pissed off. Yet. She played it blasé.

"I had some time on my hands. One of us didn't land a skip today."

"So you thought you'd take it upon yourself to pry into my history?"

"Is this you being mad at me?"

A pause. "I'm thinking of it."

Time to bring out the list she'd rehearsed over the last few hours.

"Three things. Firstly, I'm not hiding this from you. If I were, you wouldn't know about it."

"And that's such a comfort."

"Secondly, I _know_ you got your hands on my juvie records. The ones that were sealed by the courts when I turned 18? So there's no need to feign outrage on my account. This is just quid pro quo."

"And the third thing, darling?" She couldn't even see him, but she knew he was clenching his jaw anyway.

"You asked for me look into this. Remember?"

Another pause. "Aye. So I did. So don't keep me in suspense. Learn anything interesting about me, Swan?"

"The wife of a State Senator? Really?!"

Surely he had to be expecting that one.

He let out a loud sigh. One she probably would have heard across the 50 miles between them, even without the phone pressed to her ear.

"Would it help my cause if I admit I was ignorant as to the existence of any husband, prominent or no, until it was already too late?" Not likely.

"So you're still sure he isn't the one behind all this?" Emma heard him let out a breath.

"The man has the resources, but not the motive. I'm out of his life. Just like he wanted. He wouldn't risk antagonizing me now, lest I jeopardize his rumored run for Governor."

Governor. _God_. He really did have a talent for trouble. Emma had made a lot of enemies over the years, but even she knew better than to piss off a politician.

"Pray tell, what other secrets of my misspent youth did you get William to spill, Swan?" William had been a wealth of information after his fifth beer.

"Do you really play guitar?"

Killian laughed over the line. "Good to know your interrogation stayed on track, love. Aye, I dabbled a bit." She wanted to see that.

"And the tattoo?" William had intimated that it had been in a... sensitive area.

"Removed," Killian replied gruffly. It was Emma's turn to snicker.

"So, any luck finding Will Scarlet?"

Will Scarlet, Killian's skip du jour, hadn't come by their attention in the usual way. He was a small-time thief, who'd used David's services to bail himself out before. He'd been a bitch of a guy to run down. Crafty. Fearless. Killian had found him before, and he'd gone to prison for a little while. When he'd next come to the attention of the authorities, they'd been stupid enough to grant bail again, albeit at a higher price. David hadn't been stupid enough to lend him the cash.

But a competitor had. And when his own guys had come back empty handed, they'd sold the debt over to David, who knew he could find him. Or that Killian could, anyway.

"He's just as wily as I remember. Plus a good twenty pounds of muscle gained in the exercise yard. It might take a few days." A few days. During which Emma would have to carry her own unconscious skips. Get her own coffee. Eat her own Twizzlers. It was scary how much she wasn't looking forward to the prospect.

"Bring me back something shiny?"

"And what would a woman as practical as you do with something shiny?"

"Shine it in your eyes, probably. Or David's. I'm not picky." Emma shrugged, even though he couldn't see.

"I'll see what I can do, Swan."

* * *

><p>Her Bug still parked across the street, and her head still swimming with her afternoon beers, Emma elected to walk down to the nearest Starbucks, to sober up.<p>

It was the alcohol in her system that she blamed, along with her preoccupation with her truly enormous slice of pie, for failing to recognize the man immediately when he slipped into the booth opposite. Expecting a student, hungry for her free power outlet, Emma wasn't immediately on the defensive. Until she glanced up, to see August sitting across from her with his usual amused smile.

Otherwise devoid of weapons, Emma made a hasty grab for her fork.

"Whoa." Said August, shifting back and raising his hands in surrender. "No need to bring out the cutlery. I come in peace."

"Peace?" Emma wasn't convinced. Moreover, everything she wanted to know, August knew the answers to. If he felt threatened, so be it.

"Is that any way to treat the man who saved your life?"

"You already got a free pass for that." Emma gritted her teeth. "You don't get another one."

"You're a real ball-buster, you know that? You don't really want to stick that fork in me."

"Oh, really?" Emma absolutely did.

"Harming me might put the agreement I have with your boyfriend in jeopardy..." he trailed off. He could be bluffing. Was probably bluffing. But there was only one way to know.

"Agreement?" The return of his smile let Emma know he could feel the balance of power shifting back to his side. Shit.

"The one where I stay away from you and your son. Henry, is it?" Emma clutched the fork tighter in her hand.

"Great job you're doing there, staying away. I'm really feeling the distance."

"Consider this a parting gift. You forgot to ask what I got in exchange."

Emma rolled her eyes. "What did you get in exchange?"

"Why, Jones agreed to a meeting with my employer, of course."

"He _knows _who your employer is?"

"For at least a week now. So there really is no point you continuing your pithy investigation into my origins. I guarantee you, you're wasting your time."

He was bluffing. Had to be. He just wanted Emma to back off. Maybe she was getting too close. There was no way that Killian had known for a week. Last week had been Regina's visit. The dinner party.

The one Killian had shown up late for.

The guy who was never late.

August saw the moment the seed of doubt planted itself in her eyes, and grinned wider.

"Believe me now?"


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Choppy waters ahead.**

Emma had just let Henry win another round of Words With Friends when she heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. She hurried to jam her phone back into her jeans pocket, and straightened her spine. Killian emerged from the stairwell a few moments later carrying a beaten-up duffel bag, almost doing a double take when he saw Emma leaning on the green-patterned wallpaper beside his apartment door.

He was just as handsome as she remembered. Sometimes she forgot exactly how much. Dark circles under his eyes, his hair unwashed and sticking out in every direction, his usually carefully trimmed beard a little on the scruffy side. Will Scarlet had clearly led him on a merry dance the past couple days. But now he was back, and he was still the same handsome, blue-eyed bastard.

"Gods, you're a sight for sore eyes." He dropped the duffel on the landing, and closed the distance between them in a few steps. "Much better than a coffee table," he murmured, reaching up a hand to cup her face. But before he could lean forward and capture her lips, Emma sidestepped him, taking an extra step back.

Killian dropped his hand back to his side and stepped back himself, his tired mind whirring. His eyes were trained on Emma's face, searching for whatever he had clearly missed.

"So I'm guessing from your bearing that you're not here because you missed me?" He said slowly, stepping back again, until his heels made contact with his bag. "And you've no champagne, so nor did you come to toast my daring capture of the gentleman thief. Which is a pity. It is a thrilling tale, full of intrigue and ingenuity." Emma's face remained scarily blank. "But I see that would be of little interest to you at the present time. So what exactly are you doing here, Swan?"

Emma twisted around to remove the bag she had slung from her shoulders, reaching inside to pull out a large, heavy book. August's book. The gold embossed lettering glittered in the light of the hallway sconces. Then she removed the leather jacket she had been wearing. Killian's jacket. She laid it out on the ground beside the door, and placed the book on top of it.

"I'm returning a few things." She was struggling to keep her voice even, slinging her bag back over her shoulders.

"Emma, what are you-" Killian made to step forward, but the warning look in Emma's eyes made him pause mid-step.

"August came to see me. Three guesses as to what he might have told me?"

Killian's eyes narrowed, and he let out a curse under his breath.

"He was supposed to stay away from you," he said through clenched teeth.

Emma felt her heart plummet into her stomach. So it wasn't a bluff. August had been telling the truth after all. That made a change.

"Well apparently he sucks at taking orders." Emma could feel herself losing the last of her cool. "He decided he'd leave me his idea of fitting parting gift. The knowledge that I was busy chasing down someone for you that you already knew the identity of."

"Did he tell you who?" Killian took a step forward, his eyes intent on Emma. _That's _what what he was focusing on right now?

"His mysterious employer?" Emma barked out an ugly laugh. "No. And why would he? It's the only thing about him that makes him more interesting than every other stupid guy out there in skinny jeans. Besides, it's enough that _you _know." She looked at him, and he looked right back.

He wasn't denying it. Because it was the truth. He _did _know. And god, did that hurt.

"And you didn't keep searching August's motel room from me?" Apparently Killian's best defense was a good offense. No wonder the Irish sucked at sports.

"Yes, but I _told _you about that. No one made me tell you. I _chose _to. You had me running in circles for over a week, chasing someone you had already found. What was the point of that?" Emma couldn't stop her voice from raising in the confined space.

"Will you come inside, and we can talk about it?" He'd changed tactics, resigned to talking to her like she was a skittish mare. Arms by his sides. Voice calm.

Inside meant sitting on Killian's couch, looking at the coffee table she'd given him, the whole apartment smelling like him. She shook her head.

"No. Here's fine." He ran a nervous hand through his unruly hair.

"Will you sit down, at least?" he motioned to the top step. Reluctantly, she did so. She regretted it as soon as she did. He sat down beside her and he was far too close, their boots overlapping on the third stair, before she moved them away. The scar on his cheek was more noticeable in the low light, another reminder of all she didn't know about Killian Jones.

"How long have you known?" She wanted to know exactly how long she'd been playing the fool.

"For certain? Since the day of the party. I left a message on August's voicemail, asking to meet with him. We met that afternoon, in a cafe downtown. I had my own suspicions about his employer, and he confirmed them. I asked what they wanted. What it would take to get them off my back. Away from you and Henry. And he said all they wanted was a meeting. And I agreed."

"I _was_ going to tell you," he insisted, and Emma couldn't prevent the eye roll. "But I know what you're like, Swan. You wouldn't have just given up just because I told you to."

"Because I'm tenacious?" Emma practically spat the words. It had almost seemed like a compliment, coming from William's mouth. Not so much anymore.

"Yes!"

"And telling me the truth was, what? Too much trouble?"

"After that little discussion about how you don't need protecting, did you really think that was the best time?"

"I _don't_ need protecting. Why did you make that stupid bargain anyway?"

"Maybe I just wanted to keep you out of the firing line?"

"I was _in _the firing line from the very first. What changed?"

"What changed? Are you kidding me?!"

"You're being deliberately vague."

"And you're being deliberately obtuse!"

They were standing now. Emma didn't even know when that had happened. She was very conscious of her breathing. And his. Short, shallow breaths. He was way too close.

"I promised you Henry wouldn't get hurt by any connection of ours. And I meant it. And if that meant getting August to back off, then so be it." That gave Emma pause.

"Why does he need protecting? Who are you protecting him from?"

He hesitated. "I... can't tell you that."

"What the _hell_ does that mean? If someone wants to hurt my son-"

"No," Killian interrupted her before she could start with the creative threats. "No, Emma, it's just a precaution. He's fine."

"But you're still not going to tell me, are you?"

"Because you've been so bloody forthcoming with your own history?" There was that offense tactic again.

"What are you talking about? You've read everything there is to know about me!"

"No, I've read files on you. A person's life isn't just made up of paper trails and legal documentation, Emma. It's made up of what they think. How they feel."

"Is that it? You want to know what I'm feeling? What I think?" She could practically hear her heart beating in her ears. "I think there is a lot you're not telling me. A lot that has you worried. But you won't talk to me. Or let me help. And you know what? It feels a lot like _you _don't trust _me._"

"Gods, woman, will you just do as I ask for once in your life, and let this alone?"

"Will you tell me why?"

"You _know _why."

"To protect me? Or Henry? You really think I'm going to buy that?"

"Please, Emma." It was a genuine plea. The sort Killian had never debased himself to give before. Never thought he would.

"Fine! You don't need me? I'm leaving. And I'm washing my hands of the whole August debacle. Our entire stupid fucking agreement." She kicked the book on the ground for good measure. "But don't pretend for a second you're doing this to protect me. You're not. But maybe you should ask yourself, who is going to be around to protect Killian fucking Jones?"

She sidestepped his half-hearted attempt at blocking her exit, ignoring the look on his face. She'd be happy if she lived her whole life without ever seeing that particular look ever again. Like she was breaking his heart. As if she could. And if she woke his downstairs neighbors with her march down the stairs, her determined slam of the front door, well, she couldn't care less.

* * *

><p>Emma called in sick the next day. Not for one second did she think Mary Margaret fell for her put-on "sick" voice, but she didn't really care. She felt lousy. She had sick days owing. That was that.<p>

There was no way she could see Killian today.

What were they going to do? Cruise around in his Charger, chasing down bad guys and swapping flirty banter between mouthfuls of junk food, pretending everything was great and dandy? There was no fucking way.

Not when he was clearly in the middle of something. Something he wouldn't even tell her about.

And sure, maybe she might have gotten why he wouldn't trust her before. It's not like Emma had ever been one for sharing. Or feelings. Or any of that. But they were _partners. _He showed up when she needed him, and she did the same for him. That's how it worked. That's how it was _supposed_ to work.

She'd kidded herself for a long time that it was just a work thing. But she knew it wasn't. Even now, after he'd lied to her, she still knew she could count on him. Knew he'd show up in a heartbeat if she asked. So the fact that he didn't trust her to do the same, hurt.

Emma was almost too busy wallowing in self-pity to notice Henry standing in the doorway to her bedroom, looking at her with clear concern. He was already wearing his backpack.

"Oh, is your carpool here?" she asked, sitting up on her bed. Occasionally, Henry grabbed a lift to school with another kid who lived in their building. Emma had called his parents first thing, when it became apparent that leaving the apartment wasn't going to be happening today. He shook his head.

"Are you okay?" he asked, stepping forward to feel her forehead like she did when he wasn't feeling well.

"Just a little under the weather, kid. Nothing to worry about." She reached a hand up to ruffle his hair.

"Are you sure?" He scanned her face from under his eyelashes. Neal's eyelashes.

"Sure I'm sure." He didn't look entirely convinced, but he let it go.

He pulled his other hand from behind his back, to reveal the morning newspaper, and a small package, wrapped in newspaper.

"What is this?" Emma asked, reaching over to take them from him.

"I brought the paper for you. Because you forgot. The package was right next to it."

"On the landing?" Emma asked, a sinking feeling in her gut.

"Yeah," said Henry, distractedly. "What is it?" He reached over to pull at the wrapping, before Emma could move it out of his grasp.

They both looked down to where the wrapping had torn.

"What is that?" Henry asked, as Emma pulled off the rest of the newspaper.

It was a ceramic snow globe. There was a lighthouse inside it, set on a rocky landscape. The words _Providence, RI_ were printed along the side, and Emma traced them with her fingers. She shook it, watching the glitter pieces swirl through the water, obscuring the lighthouse in a dazzling blizzard.

"Something shiny," she said.


End file.
